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regicidal-defenestration · 4 years ago

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Victoria Died (and then some other things happened and we all got a bit distracted sorry about that Victoria)

A Death by Dying / Lost Cat Podcast crossover fic, because I think the Lost Cat narrator and Obituary Writer deserve to meet each other

[Lost Cat Narrator]

They say you have to go far away to realise what you had close by all along. They never did say exactly how far though…

[LCN]

“You need a holiday,” said Bojana.

“What.” I said, because it’s quite an odd topic to spring on a person like that.

“You need a holiday,” she said again. “I’ve booked us the plane tickets already.”

I didn’t say “what” again, because you can overdo these things. “I have work.”

“Your podcast?” Bojana asked, and she sounded unfairly incredulous.

“And make music,” I added. “And-”

Bojana stopped me. “You can do all that in America.”

America? I thought to myself. “America?” I asked out loud, with more emphasis. “I’m not going to America.”

“Yes you are,” Bojana said, and like that, it was sorted. We were off to America.

[LCN]

The sign cheerfully welcomed us to the small town of Crestfall, Idaho, and informed us that it had been 5 days since the last unexplained death.

“That isn’t very reassuring,” I said.

“It’ll be a local joke,” said Bojana, but she didn’t sound very sure. Unexplained deaths, it seems, are an international uniting factor. Fun!

We stayed staring at the sign for a few more moments, in case any more unexplained deaths happened whilst we were watching. And one did, technically, although we didn’t actually get to see anyone die, which was disappointing. A man pushed past us, felt tip in hand, and carefully crossed out the number 5 and replaced it with a 0.

He turned to us and frowned. “You’re new.”

This felt accusatory.

Bojana said: “Did you kill them?”, because Bojana is good at cutting to the point, whereas I am more used to using enough words to make a story seem long enough to be worth it.

The man didn’t answer, which was definitely worrying, because you would think it is easy to say whether or not you’re a murderer. He had a firm, steady gaze, the kind that seems to have an internal monologue behind it, just on the edge of hearing. An internal monologue that might have sounded something like:

[Obituary Writer]

Victoria was dead, to begin with.

She was dead afterwards too, but I think misquoting famous literature always helps set the mood.

Victoria was dead, to begin with, and when I went to update Crestfall’s Unexplained Deaths Board, there were two strangers there, staring at it. You can always tell who’s new here, because for some reason they all react to the Unexplained Deaths Board with the same concern.

I turned to them after changing the number, and introduced myself.

“I am the modest and handsomely dressed Obituary Writer of this little town called Crestfall. You must be new here, I can show you around if you want?”

I also took a moment to adjust my stance so that they could both hopefully see the enamel pin on my lapel, which is in the shape of a typewriter and coloured with the bisexual flag colours, because they both seemed friendly, and you never know.

The woman looked at me suspiciously. “Did you kill them?” she asked. Her eyes bore into me like she was trying to read the truth of my very soul, like if she just looked hard enough all the secrets of Victoria’s death would be laid out before her. It was the kind of stare that you can hear the internal monologue behind. An internal monologue, that might sound something like…

(the sound of howling wind. In the distance, a crow caws)

Only joking. It’s impossible to hear other people’s internal monologues, no matter what Dan the Fake Tarot Man who lives on the edge of town claims.

A crying shame.

“You’re taking a long time to answer that,” the man pointed out.

“I am merely investigating Victoria’s death,” I replied, sounding suitably serious about the whole matter. “If you would like, I can show you my current notes?”

The man frowned. “Why is an obituary writer investigating a death?” he muttered, more like he was speaking to himself than to me. However-

“Obituary Writer,” I corrected him.

A slight pause. “Yes? That’s what I said.”

“You called me an obituary writer, but I am the Obituary Writer." Ugh. Tourists.

The man and I held each other’s gazes. He seemed to be having an internal discussion with himself, perhaps even an argument.

Again - it really is a shame we cannot hear the thoughts and motives of others, don’t you think?

The silence stretched out long and sharp. I shifted. His eyes flicked down to my enamel badge. I looked slightly past his left ear. He looked up to a spot between my eyebrows.

"I’m Bojana,” said Bojana. “Can we see your notes?”

[LCN]

Currently, my life does not have a motto, but if it did, I might decide on “never follow someone back to their house when they have already talked, at length, about murder.”

“We’re going to die,” I whispered to Bojana.

“We might not be,“ she whispered back, unhelpfully. "Besides, we’re on holiday. Lighten up a bit.”

“Whilst searching for my cat, I have found all manner of things,” I whispered, although it was louder this time, and so more like a murmur. “Some of those things have been death, and some have been worse still, although I won’t go into those, since we are on holiday. The point is - I have no wish to be killed again.”

“You two aren’t very quiet whisperers,” the Obituary Writer called back, stopping in front of a door and rooting around in his pockets for a key.

“Besides, I’m not a murderer, and I find that accusation slightly offensive.”

Beckoning us to follow, he pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

I must admit: the house fit his whole aesthetic exactly. The curtains were a deep red, the carpets thick and shaggy, and there was, naturally, a typewriter, rather than a computer, left out on the dark oak table. There was another little pride flag in a skull-shaped mug, and on one wall hung a cork board that was covered in notes and red string.

“The house at Land’s End” read one note, which connected to another that said “The end of Land’s House???”, with three question marks, which is far too many for any normal person to use. Clearly, this job had put the Obituary Writer under large amounts of stress.

I went to read further when -

(the meow of a man-eating cat)

- my thoughts were interrupted.

He has a cat?

“You have a cat?” Bojana asked before I could. Damn.

[Obituary Writer]

The One Who Hunts wound himself between the man’s legs, purring.

“Three, actually. The One Who Hunts, The One Who Glares, and The One Who Sulks. They don’t eat people.”

My two guests didn’t take that last sentence quite how I thought they would. The man stopped his idle scratching between The One Who Hunts’ ears. Bojana took half a step towards the door.

“Okay, usually,” she began, “you don’t need to reassure someone that your cats won’t eat them.”

“But I like to reassure people.”

Bojana frowned. “I don’t feel reassured.” She looked over at her friend. “Do you feel reassured?”

“I got eaten by cats once, whilst searching for my own,” the man said, with a dramatic stare into the middle distance. “They ate my right hand and my left foot, then they ate my nose and my tongue. My ribs were gnawed and my heart-”

“Dude,” interrupted Bojana. “We’re on holiday, remember?”

The man held up his hands apologetically but I was keen to hear more. If he had truly been eaten alive by cats, then I, the Obituary Writer, wanted to write him a damn good obituary. And with all due respect to Victoria, who was a much loved member of the community and will be sorely missed by all - this was the most interesting thing to happen all week.

“No please,” I said, “go on. I might even write you an obituary.”

The man smiled- no- grinned.

“Well then. How about I tell you, over a glass of wine?”

(the narrator begins his song. It’s bittersweet, about missing cats, lost friends, and returning home at last)

[LCN]

When I finished telling my story, the Obituary Writer thought for a long time.

A long, long time.

“I think,” he said, at last, “you should meet my friend.”

[LCN]

Bojana said: “Dude.”

I said: “I know.”

Bojana repeated again: “Dude.”, a little more firmly.

I said: “I know.”

She pinched her arm. “Am I dreaming? I don’t think my imagination is good enough to make this up.”

“We’re going, on the insistence of someone who may well be a murderer, to see the Angel of Death, who is not, as it were, a metaphor, and who is, unlike her sibling, the Angel of Life, quite a nice person, apparently.”

Bojana sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that,” she said sadly.

“If this all turns out not to be a metaphor,” I took a deep breath, “I’d just like to say-”

“I’m not going to kill you,” someone interrupted with a voice like light refracted in glass.

We screamed, Bojana grabbing my shoulder and me grabbing her arm. When we realised what we had done, we stayed like that anyway, because sometimes the comfort of having another person is worth more than pretending to be cool.

The woman was beautiful in the way that wildflowers growing up and out of a sheep’s skull are beautiful. She was pale and almost translucent, with a pair of great wings of bone folded against her back. Her eyes were old and sad, and her dress fluttered in the breeze like moth wings.

The Angel of Death.

Bojana opened and shut her mouth a few times, trying and failing to find the words. “…dude,” she whispered at last, awe-struck. And then, slightly more worried - “Are you going to kill us?”

The Angel cocked her head at us curiously. “I just said I wasn’t. Besides, I do not kill people. Only Life kills people.”

I asked: “Can I use that line in my podcast?” and Bojana trod on my foot to get me to shut up.

The Angel ignored both of us, which was probably for the best. “Why have you come to see me?” she asked instead.

“Your friend is concerned about my friend,” Bojana said. “It was the bit about getting eaten by cats, I think.”

In the trees, a raven cried out. “Woeful are the lost and woeful are the found! Caw!”

You know, I never realised American ravens were so eloquent.

“They didn’t kill you though,” asked the Angel, in a way that wasn’t a question.

“I got better.”

“You bled out all over our nice carpet,” Bojana muttered.

The Angel of Death didn’t say anything and that was an answer enough.

“My cat is lost, and I miss it,” I began. “My search for it has lasted many years now, because I know that it isn’t dead. I have found people playing at being monsters and monsters playing at being people and I have found everyone else, who just sort of exist in the middle of those two states. I have been to strange places through strange portals and I have been to strange places like America, and, despite all, of this my cat is still lost.”

The wind blew through the trees, a dog barked in the distance, the world turned on and on. My cat, wherever it is, meowed.

The Angel looked at us with her sad eyes. “Why do you search for something forever out of reach, ignoring those around you? Your cat will return - all lost cats must show up somewhere.”

In a flurry of feathers, a raven settled on her shoulder. The light glinted off its eyes and I saw they were not eyes at all, but buttons. It cawed again as the Angel fed it a berry.

“Listen please: in life, death. In death, life. Enjoy it. Live a full, good life. It will make the wine taste better” She frowned for a moment. “Another person said those words before me, but I like them. Sometimes, it’s nice to have someone else tell you about what you already know.”

And then she was gone, fading away like smoke spreading out into the night sky.

Bojana let out a long, quiet whistle. “Do you think she’s single?”

#yes this fic has two narrators and sometimes they narrate the other person's speech what of it #death by dying #the lost cat podcast #writing #podcats (note spelling)#tumblr stop fucking with the formatting challenge

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jammydodger666 · 3 years ago

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SOLOMON REED ? STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING SOLOMON REED GOD DAMN FOOL BONE COLLECTING DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT AVATAR OF THE HOMOPHOBE BIGGEST CLOWN IN THE CIRCUS LAUGHED OUT OF TOWN COWBOY MOTHERFUCKING SOLOMON REED.

STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT SOLOMON REED I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP INSTRUMENT'S WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT JUST CAPTURE THEM SOULS IS HE DEAD IS HE A BASTARD MAN HAS SUCH A VISCERAL AFFECT ON ME NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM NEVER SEEN THIS MANS FACE AND I KNOW HE HAS THE WORLDS SHITTIEST HAIR GET AWAY FROM ME.

if i wanted to get into heaven and god said Solomon Reed was waiting inside i would piss on gods feet for the sole purpose of getting sent back down.

if i have to deal with Solomon Reed speaking one word in person on voice in podcast not only will i close the tab i will delete my bookmark out of spite and have to rewatch the entire series again for the experience of being able to skip all the times when he is mentioned or alive. I hate him so much. he collects bones but i am just mad because i am angy.

he better have some fucked up backstory to explain this if hes just some rich shithead whos a fan of music and wanted the irl version ill go ham. BETTER have had a instrument make him kill a man cuz if he didnt Im going to make him. paypal.com/IFuckingHateSolomonReed

episodes not even about him. vaguely mentioned what is supposed to maybe be his house in the woods and I lost it. where the fuck is Solomon Reed if hes still alive im going to so deeply wish he wasnt. crusty old man.

ill punch Solomon and his sad frail old man twig bones will simply flake apart under my epic huge meat fist and he will disintegrate until all thats left is one final instrument he kept on him at all times simply saying Now You Fucked Up in ancient yiddish. im not breathing im hyperventilating at this point.

i hope theres a date given for when Solomon died or will die so i can make it a reminder on my phone. everyday once a year i will see it and do anything but pay respects to the man who had so many fucked up if true instruments.

#hfth #solomon reed #i hate this man so much #so i made this #enjoy #solomon reed rant

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floralguccistyles · 5 years ago

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four: empty child

I had mixed feelings about it being February first.

Of course I was excited, because I got paid on the first and fifteenth of each month so I was ready to have money again. My refrigerator was getting horrifyingly low and I had run out of tampons. I also liked the first of each month because it meant no matter how shitty January was (and it had been decently shitty), February was a new month.

It was also Harry Styles’ birthday.

Surprisingly, I had already known this before his stardom. Even though he and his group of my tormentors had hardly been on my radar after secondary school had ended, I remembered them always making a big to-do of each others’ birthdays. Oliver and Emma’s birthdays were late August, right around when the school year would start. Emma’s boyfriend had a birthday in March. Nathan’s birthday was November thirteenth.

And Harry Styles’ was February first.

Contrary to popular belief, my world did not revolve around Harry Styles. I simply woke up on the morning of the first, checked my bank account and did a little happy dance when I realized I would be able to afford groceries, and then scrolled on Twitter. I didn’t even correlate the day to his birthday until I saw the hashtag trending.

I hadn’t given Harry much thought since two weeks ago, when the bouquet of flowers had arrived on my doorstep. I didn’t want to know how he got my address (probably Bailey) and I didn’t want to think about the fact that he was the first guy to have ever gotten me flowers. I didn’t want Harry to be the first boy to have given me flowers. My first experience felt tainted now. I always dreamed that I would press the first flower someone gave to me in the thickest book I could find. With the bouquet from Harry, I didn’t bother. It made me sad that my plan had been spoiled. They had gone in the trash after a week, when they had started to wilt; even though I couldn’t bring myself to press a flower form Harry’s bouquet, it didn’t mean I was going to throw away perfectly good flowers until they were dying.

Upon realizing it was his birthday, I stopped doing my happy dance and frowned down at my Twitter feed before shutting out of the app. It was highly unlikely I’d be interacting with Harry any time soon (if ever) so I didn’t feel that I had to see his face plastered on all my social media accounts.

I dressed in some warmer clothes for my biweekly trek to the supermarket. Zach was out of town for the week with some uni friends, so Jeremiah was letting me borrow his car to run my errands. I appreciated the fact that I didn’t have to Uber to the market. There was a Spiceways about eight minutes from my flat, so I drove through the streets of Merton until I pulled up to the store, hopping out of Jeremiah’s car with a little bit of difficulty because it was so high up.

Unlike some, I didn’t mind grocery shopping. Maybe it was because when I was younger and wanted to get junk food all the time, my mum wouldn’t let me. With the freedom to choose whatever I damn well pleased, grocery shopping wasn’t the horror that most people made it out to be.

I was debating between Jaffa Cakes and Aero bars when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I asked without really looking at the caller ID.

“Hey Petra,” Bailey’s happy voice said from the other side of the line.

Bailey had been diligent about checking in on me since the Peter incident. I appreciated her worry. She’d been texting me a little and asking how my days had been and stuff about the podcast that she easily could have asked Veronica. I liked that she was keeping an eye on me.

“Hey,” I responded. “Quick question. Jaffa Cakes or Aero bars?”

“Aero all the way.”

“Got it.” I threw the box of Aero bars in my cart. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to invite you to a party tonight. Veronica and I are going and she suggested that we invite you. Jeremiah, too.” I heard rustling on the other side of the line and wondered what she was making.

Bailey made things for Etsy in her free time, when she wasn’t busy being a badass biochemist. I had actually gotten a knitted scarf from her a couple years ago and still had it. She was known for making little things like hair accessories or blankets, but sometimes she dabbled in clothes. Which was why she and Veronica’s flat was covered in fabrics. It was like walking into a craft store.

“A party? For what?” Decided to screw my health, I threw in the box of jaffa cakes in the cart as well. I wouldn’t eat them all in one sitting, I reasoned with myself. One a day couldn’t be too terrible for my health.

“Some birthday party Jeff invited me to. It’s in Hampstead, so they’ll have the good alcohol. Veronica’s never met Jeff so she wanted us to go.”

Jeff Azoff had helped Harry with his first record. Bailey was friends with Jeff Azoff. Harry’s birthday, coincidentally, happened to be today. “Is it Harry Styles’ birthday party?”

“I didn’t actually ask Jeff, but if it’s his birthday today, then probably.”

I sighed. “Probably not a good idea for Harry Styles and I to be in the same vicinity. Last time I nearly bit his head off. Rightfully so, but…” I trailed off, shaking my head at the memory. And with the memory also came visions of my pretty pink tulips and white baby’s breath. “Thanks for the invite, though.”

“I know you and Harry have got a rocky relationship, but I imagine this party’s going to be huge. Chances are you won’t even see him there. I just want you to be able to get out and have some fun. If you want to leave, I’ll be the first one to pay for an Uber for you.”

I debated it for a moment. It would be nice to get out of the house. I had been holed up between my flat and Outset, working on AC and simultaneously feeling like a fool about my awful date with Peter. I was usually very observant of someone’s character and it had thrown me off that I had gotten Peter so wrong. And Bailey was right. If the party was in Hampstead, Bailey was correct in assuming there would be good alcohol. No one in Hampstead would dare buy the cheap stuff. It would also be nice to hang out with Jeremiah and Veronica outside of AC.

“I don’t know, Bails. Can I get a couple hours to think about it?”

“Sure, no problem. It starts at seven. I’ll text you later and if you need a ride, Veronica and I can come grab you.”

I appreciated that she wasn’t pushing me to go, like my parents would have been. They would have demanded I show up and try to get to know the “new Harry.” We hung up the call after I promised to text her once I made a decision, and I stared at my shopping cart for a little while longer before I decided that he wasn’t going to consume my thoughts. I had once let him do that, when I was younger and more insecure. It wasn’t going to happen again.

I was usually done shopping in about thirty minutes because I didn’t dawdle around as I filled my basket with shitty food. Something this time, however, had me standing in the middle of the Mexican food isle, my brain still focused on Peter’s words. Though it had been racist of him to say it the way he did, I think it also bothered me because of how wrong he was. I didn’t know what foods from my culture were good because my parents had tried to conform to the English foods.

My grandmother on my father’s side had come to visit us only once when she had gotten a bonus from her job in Santa Clara. She had scoured the isles of every market in town, trying to find acceptable ingredients for the meal she promised my father. That night, I had arroz con pollo, empanadas, flan, and a cake with dulce de leche poured on top. It had been the best meal of my entire life.

No one in my family had made anything like that since.

I was holding a box of Spanish rice in my hand, trying to decide if I could make myself arroz con pollo like my grandmother did, when a little girl accidentally bumped into me. She looked to be about five years old, with a cute little gap tooth that I spotted when she smiled hesitantly at me.

“Lo siento,” she said softly, hugging onto her mother’s leg. Her mother shot me an apologetic glance.

“It’s okay,” I managed, smiling at the little girl. “I like your bow.” I pointed to the glittery silver bow in her hair. It took up half of her head.

She glanced at her mother, her eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. Her mother stammered over a couple of words as she responded to me. “We...speak...no English,” she said, her voice heavily accented.

I felt the shame flow through me. Shame that I hadn’t ever forced my parents to teach me Spanish. Shame that I couldn’t communicate with this little girl and her mother. Shame that I had gotten so lost in England that I hadn’t picked up Spanish myself.

“No se mucho español,” I said as a way of explaining, hoping the apologetic expression on my face was enough to convey to her that I was truly sorry I couldn’t compliment her little girl’s bow.

The mother just smiled at me and nodded politely before she and the little girl started off in the opposite direction of the isle. The little girl turned around and gave me a big wave, her little gap-toothed grin flashing before she faced in front of her once more. Their lives, just like that, unaffected by someone they ran into that couldn’t speak Spanish.

Meanwhile, I was frozen.

I felt like crying, as stupid as it sounded. But it wasn’t the first time someone had asked me something in Spanish and I hadn’t been able to respond. And even though I knew I shouldn’t, I always felt like a bad person. Like I should be more in-tune with my heritage. Like I wasn’t allowed to call myself Cuban because really, I hadn’t even ever been to Cuba.

I put the box of rice back on the shelf, and stupidly, it felt like I was putting half of my soul back.

Maybe it would be a good idea to go to Harry’s party. Bailey was probably right about a ton of people being there. He was internationally known. There would have to be at least two hundred people at one of his parties, probably more. If I stayed with Jeremiah and Veronica, he wouldn’t even notice me. And after the emotional turmoil of the supermarket, I was ready for a drink or two. Or three. And even if he did notice me, that didn’t mean I couldn’t ignore him. Just because it was his birthday didn’t mean I had to be nice to him.

He could tell you that you need to get your head out of your ass and be a real person instead of living in fantasy books.

But hopefully, I reasoned, I would be too drunk to care if he did do that.

Which is the only reason why I texted Bailey an hour later, when my groceries were in my fridge and I was in the comfort of my own home.

I’ll be there tonight. But can I bring Melody?

“Okay, but can I throat punch him?”

“You know, I’m gonna assume no.”

“Bummer.”

Melody and I were standing outside of the house in Hampstead. I didn’t know who it belonged to. When I had asked Bailey in the car she had shrugged her shoulders. At least that meant it wasn’t Jeff’s, since I would assume Bailey would know if it was his house.

Bailey, Jeremiah, and Veronica had already made their way inside. Melody and I, however, were still outside staring at the front of the house. It was obnoxiously grandiose. I couldn’t imagine having that much space and having to actually decorate it. We had stumbled out of the car and I found myself unable to go any further.

“We can leave whenever you want,” Melody reminded me. It was the fourth time she had mentioned this fact.

“I’m twenty-four. What does it say that I’m still terrified of someone I went to secondary school with?”

“That you’re a normal human being who doesn’t like to be made fun of and that he’s a dick?” Melody offered helpfully. I snorted.

“Reckon we should go in,” I said after a couple of moments. She nodded, patting my shoulder affectionately before we both trekked up the front porch. The door was open because the estate was surrounded by what I assumed were military-grade security cameras and a huge opaque fence. The only people who were getting inside the fence either had the gate code or were rock climbers.

As soon as we stepped inside, my body rattled with the bass of the song playing. I didn’t recognize it, but I probably didn’t listen to the same music Harry Styles did, so I wasn’t surprised. Melody had the extraordinary ability of finding alcohol wherever it was hidden, so it was only about ten seconds before she tugged me in the direction of the kitchen, where there was a wide array of drinks lining the kitchen counter. A kitchen counter, I might add, that was the size of a swimming pool. Melody grabbed a beer and handed it to me. I didn’t hesitate to take a swig.

I didn’t spot my other companions, which was good and bad news. Bad news because I wanted to spend time with them, good news because if finding them was hard, then certainly finding the birthday boy was going to be impossible. “I want to take a look around this house,” Melody mentioned to me after she had grabbed herself a drink.

Fine with getting away from the crowd, I let her pull me into the left hallway. There were only two doors, and one of them was open. It was a bathroom, but it wasn’t a normal bathroom. It was probably the size of my bedroom and front room combined. There was a giant clawfoot tub and shower across from a marble countertop with black sink basins. Melody’s jaw dropped open as we stepped inside.

“Fuck this is nice,” she commented, twirling around to take in the bathroom in its entirety. “Can you imagine owning a tub like that? I’d never leave.”

I agreed. I was a sucker for a good clawfoot tub. This one looked like it could easily fit four people. “I could live in that tub.”

“Wonder what this room is,” she said, casually walking out of the bathroom and opening up the other door. I was about to scold her for being rude, but most of the party guests were outside in the yard and barely took notice of us.

This looked like a guest room of some kind. The walls were painted a dark navy blue and the room was accented with dark walnut and white colored woods, making the contrast sharp. The bed was king sized, decorated with other little navy pillowcases and navy sheets. There was a black and white blanket at the end of the bed that looked like it would be scratchy. I figured it was just there for decoration. There weren’t many pictures on the walls, but there was one of a giant black and white elephant next to a telly that was plastered to the wall.

“Holy shit. I could just stay in here and no one would know.” Then, in an action that absolutely horrified me, she jumped onto the bed, wiggling around in the sheets. “Oh Christ, you’ve got to get a load of this bed, Petra.”

“No,” I hissed out, crossing my arms over my chest. “Melody, this isn’t our house.”

“I guarantee whoever lives here doesn’t give a right fuck.”

“You aren’t wrong, I suppose.”

The new voice had me jumping in my skin. Melody didn’t even both to sit up, just waving away whoever the voice was, but I turned to see whose bedroom we were snooping in. The face that greeted me wasn’t one I expected to see. Obviously, she didn’t expect to see me either, since her amused expression dropped from her face and she glanced at me with wide eyes.

“Petra? Petra Gallego?” Gemma Styles asked with a slowly-forming smile on her face. “Holy shit.” And then her arms were around me, pulling me into a friendly hug.

Unlike Harry, I had never had a problem with Gemma. Knowing that she was one of the kindest people I’d ever met, I knew it wasn’t likely she knew how her brother treated me. She always said hi to me when she saw me around Holmes Chapel and even offered to curl my hair for prom for year ten. I didn’t end up going until year eleven because of Harry and his friends, but I appreciated the offer. Since she was a little older than me, we never really kept in touch, but I kept up with her sometimes.

“Oh good,” Melody mentioned from the bed. “You know the person who sleeps in this room. Meaning I can sleep here.”

Gemma pulled away from me. “Isn’t it magnificent? I’m glad he splurged on that mattress. Means I don’t sleep like shit when I come visit.”

“Wait, what? Is this… is this Harry’s house?” I asked. Gemma had already floated over to her bed and flopped down next to Melody like the two of them were best friends.

“You didn’t know that? But you’re here.”

“I knew it was his party, I didn’t know it was his house.” And now I felt like an idiot. I was standing inside Harry Styles’ home. “Fuck, I’ve got to go.”

“Why?” Gemma asked, sitting up. “I’m not mad you’re in here.”

“No, I mean I have to leave the house.” I didn’t want to be in Harry’s house. I didn’t know why it made a difference whose house it was, but I knew it did. My skin was crawling. I had knowingly walked into the lion’s den. “Melody, we’ve got to leave.”

“Alright, but you’re going to have to peel me up.”

Gemma stood up easily enough and frowned at me. “Is Harry being a dick to you again? I’ll punch him in the nose, I swear.” At the expression on my face, her frown deepened. “He’s changed, Petra. I promise. If I thought for a second Harry was still acting like a shitty teenage boy, I’d drive you home myself. I’d just hate for you to feel like you have to leave.”

I appreciated her loyalty to her brother, I really did. But I didn’t want to be in here and I didn’t want to be around Gemma anymore, not when she would so blindly advocate for him. I was happy she’d punched him in the nose when she found out how he treated me when we were kids, but that didn’t mean she was going to support me telling her brother to go fuck himself. She loved him too much. I saw the way they were when we were younger, like they were two sides of the same coin.

“She’s right, you know.”

“Oh Jesus fuck, of course you’re here,” Melody mentioned, still lying on the bed in Harry Styles’ guest room. Unlike Gemma, this voice wasn’t a surprise.

Harry gave me a hesitant smile. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want, but you should stay and enjoy the party. I’ll make myself scarce.”

“You shouldn’t have to in your own house,” I said regrettably, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t add a “fucker” to my sentiments. “If I had known it was your place, I wouldn’t have come.”

He looked defeated, but also like he knew he deserved my harsh words. I felt a spike of pleasure at his sad expression. I knew it was vindictive and mean, but I didn’t care.

“Yeah, cause you’re a raging twat.”

I snickered at Melody’s deadpan tone and the surprised look on Harry’s face when he realized the other person in the room wasn’t someone he knew. Melody pulled herself up from the bed and lazily stood, giving Harry a once over and looking entirely unimpressed.

“You must be Melody.”

“Damn straight I’m Melody,” she huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “And you’re an arsehole.”

Gemma raised a brow but didn’t say much else.

“I know,” Harry replied, and I was surprised by his admittance. Then, without thinking about it, he stepped aside and gestured out into the hall. “You want a tour of the rest of the house? I’ve got a Super Caeser in my room.”

Melody’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. Those are the beds that fit four people right?” At Harry’s nod, she grinned. “Lead the way, twat.”

It was my mouth’s turn to drop open. “Melody,” I hissed underneath my breath. Where was the solidarity? Where was the earlier promise that she’d leave with me if I decided I wanted to go home?

“I know, I know,” she whispered to me as Harry left the room and started down the hallway. “But I’ve never seen a Super Caeser mattress before and I really want to.” She cast a glance at Gemma, who was still standing in the room. “You like her right? Stay with her. I’ll be right back.” And then she was out the door, leaving me glaring at her.

“I’ve caught Alien Crossing a couple of times,” Gemma said as a way to make conversation. I noticed that we were moving out of the guest room. Now that I knew Gemma was the one using it, I felt worse for snooping. “It’s fucking brilliant, Petra. Good for you making something so unique and fun.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t used to members of the Styles family praising me for what I did.

We were walking aimlessly in the same direction Harry and Melody had left in. I slowed my steps, but I felt rude if I didn’t follow Gemma and let our conversation randomly end. “The episode with Harry seemed to go well. When he called me and told me he was going to be on, I nearly had an aneurysm. I was sure you wouldn’t want him within five feet of you.”

“I didn’t. I asked him to be on because the guest we had lined up had a family emergency.”

Gemma suddenly stopped in her tracks. We were in the hallway to the right side of the front door now, where I could see three more doors that probably contained bathrooms and bedrooms bigger than my entire flat. “I never tried to get in touch to apologize, Petra.”

“Apologize?” I blinked in surprise. “Apologize for what?”

“For Harry being a prick,” she said softly, shrugging her shoulders and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I know he’s not my responsibility, but… I just really wish he hadn’t been so nasty to you. It was really out of character for him. I’d like to say with confidence that he was just doing it to go along with his friends, but I don’t know. I’ve felt guilty about it ever since he told me.”

“Gemma, you’re right. He’s not your responsibility. He knew what he was doing and he chose to do it anyway. I’m not mad at you.”

“But you’re mad at him. And it sucks because he totally deserves it.”

He did. He deserved my anger, my wrath, my disdain. He deserved for me to tell him to stay the fuck out of my life and never contact me again. I should have told him that. But there was something about seeing Gemma’s defeated expression that had me keeping my comments to myself.

So instead, I shrugged. “It is what it is, Gemma.”

And that, unfortunately, was the truth. It was too late for her apologies, and she wasn’t the one that was supposed to be giving them. Melody suddenly appeared as Gemma and I stood in the hallway, looking nothing short of enchanted. She all but floated to my side, a wistful expression on her face.

“I want one,” she said after a few moments. I snorted. Harry emerged from the room looking like he wanted to laugh and frown at the same time. It was a weird dichotomy. “But the fog of a Super Caesar mattress has cleared from my head, so I will happily leave with you if you’d like to leave.”

Though I had no patience for Harry, I did have patience for Gemma. And one look at her guilty face, though she had nothing to be guilty for, had me hesitating. “I’ll...stay for a bit,” I said quietly. Melody looked surprised, but nodded her head. Harry looked like someone had just told him the best news ever. It looked entirely too happy and fake to be an expression on the face of Harry Styles, but I wasn’t focused much on him. I was focused on his sister, who gave me a hopeful smile before she glared at her brother.

“Great! Melody and I will go get you another beer. Harry can give you a tour of the house.”

I didn’t have time to open my mouth and argue before Gemma was grabbing Melody’s arm in a vice like grip and pulling her in the direction of the kitchen. That left Harry and I alone, standing in his hallway. I crossed my arms over my chest. He put his hands in his pockets.

It was all very, very awkward.

“I’m not gonna say happy birthday,” I suddenly burst out. I think I surprised him because he jumped a little.

“That’s okay,” he agreed softly. Another few moments of awkward silence. “Well, do you want the tour? It’s okay if you don’t.”

I didn’t really care much about Harry Styles’ house, but I had a feeling if I went to go find Gemma and Melody, Gemma would just find a way to bring me back to right where I was standing. “Whatever. Just start walking.”

He did as I said, turning on his heels and opening up the first door. It was another guest room, but it didn’t look like anyone stayed in it much. There was a desk and a computer in there as well, so I figured he used it for an office. “This is one of the guest rooms,” he said hesitantly, like he wasn‘t entirely sure I wouldn’t just turn around and leave him in the middle of speaking. “Gemma doesn’t like staying in here because she thinks the government is watching her from the webcam of the computer.”

I raised a brow. “Doesn’t she have an iPhone?”

He grinned. “Yep.”

I wanted to ask him to stop smiling because when he smiled I wanted to punch him, but I figured that would be weird, even for me. So instead, I hummed out a response before I turned and walked towards the door directly across from the office. It was another bathroom, this one without a claw-foot tub. I automatically liked it less because of that fact. But it was decorated nicely, in soft nudes and tans. Overall, it was very impersonal.

“Your place is a two story,” I mentioned offhandedly just as he was about to open the door to his room.

He furrowed his brows. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why’re you on the first floor then?”

He smiled. “I specifically renovated it a couple years ago so it’s a big open space up there. I’ve got a telly and some instruments. I record ideas for songs there.”

I didn’t know if he expected me to be impressed, but I just nodded my head, going along with what he was saying. He pushed open the door to his room walked in, gesturing to the giant mattress that even I could admit was impressive. There were guitars lining the walls. It would have looked tacky if I had tried to do the same thing in my flat, but it fit this room somehow. There was a giant flat screen against the wall closest to the door, on a stand that was filled to the brim with DVD cases. I didn’t think anyone even watched DVDs anymore.

Harry walked around the room, pointing out the master bath and the record player he had in the furthest corner, along with stacks and rows of vinyls. His voice trailed off when he turned and realized I hadn’t followed him into the room. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I wasn’t. Because he looked so comfortable in his room, his safe space that he obviously put love and time into. “This room,” I said, pausing to try and find the right words, “you look comfortable in it.”

“Yeah. It’s my safe space.”

I nodded. “That’s what Alien Crossing is to me.”

“I know.”

“No.” I shook my head, closing my eyes to try and fight back the headache growing. “No, you don’t know. Because I’ve never told you. I never told you because when I was fifteen, you told me I had to get my head out of my ass and live in the real world, instead of my little fantasy world.” He at least had the decency to look ashamed. “But you know what, I don’t even care about that. You sent me flowers because Bailey told you what Peter did. But Harry… what your friends said to me was much, much worse. And you didn’t do shit to stop it.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Petra.”

“I don’t want a fucking apology!” I screamed, suddenly infuriated. I didn’t want to hear him say that he was sorry. It was too late. “I don’t care if that makes me stubborn or selfish or stuck in the past. I hated myself, hated the things I loved, because you and your friends made me feel like shit. Made me feel like less than a person. And then I put myself on the line, asking you to be on my podcast, and it was just a huge mistake because I’m tired of feeling less than. You make me feel less than, Harry. I can’t accept your apology, Harry. Not right now. Not when I still have to see a fucking therapist because Nathan told me to go back to where I came from even though I was born in fucking Cheshire like the rest of you.”

It was silent. If I breathed in the wrong way, he would hear it. But I was just so tired. I sighed and slumped against his door, leaning my body on it as though it would support me for the rest of my life. He stood on the other side of the room, feeling both like he was an ocean away and much, much too close.

“I won’t try and apologize again, because I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know I was awful, Petra. I feel like shit about it. And I’m not saying that to make you feel bad for me or make it all about myself, but because I want you to know that the asshole from Holmes Chapel doesn’t exist anymore. I know it’s going to be hard to get him out of your head, but he’s gone.”

“It doesn’t change what he did,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose.

The two of us stood there for who knew how long. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. He was letting me process and I appreciated that. Deep, deep in my mind, I knew my anger at him was overwhelming. He’d apologized three times now, each one sounding more and more sincere than the last. It didn’t mean I was ready to forgive him by any means, but I could at least acknowledge that he was trying.

“Did Gemma really punch you in the nose when she found out?” I asked after a few moments.

He nodded. “Had to cover it up with a shit ton of makeup because that was around the time we were touring with Big Time Rush.”

I let out a snort, shaking my head at the image of Harry sitting in a makeup chair while they smeared concealer over his nose. Then, I sighed. “Christ, Harry. I’m twenty-four and I don’t have the time or energy to be holding onto this feeling. But you’ve got to keep in mind that it’s going to take a while. I might never forgive you fully.”

“I completely understand.”

Pushing myself up from the door because I figured that was the end of the conversation, I steadied myself and went to walk out to the kitchen. I figured it had been an appropriate enough amount of time spent with Harry; confident that Gemma wouldn’t send me back, I started on my way.

I don’t know what made me turn around to catch the expression on his face, to check and see if it was just a facade that fell away when I turned my back, but I did.

He looked genuinely remorseful. I hated it. Because I knew that if I stuck around long enough, I would start to fall for it and I wasn’t ready to do that quite yet. Which was why I was going to grab another beer for the road and order myself an Uber. Everyone would understand. Melody might even go with me, if Gemma wasn’t still holding her captive.

“I liked the flowers.” My voice was almost silent, but of course he heard it.

“Yeah?”

I didn’t answer him, just left him standing in his room in search of Melody and more alcohol.

“It’s one hundred percent considered literature. I agree with you.”

I was nodding my head at my own words as I smiled at Daisy Callahan. She was sitting across from me, also decked out in her pajamas which made me love her even more. Currently, we were discussing whether or not fanfiction should be considered literature, though it wasn’t much of an argument since we both agreed it did.

“I mean, look at how many fanfictions have been turned into huge adaptions. There’s Fifty Shades, which was originally Twilight fanfiction—”

Jeremiah cut Daisy off from his place in the soundbooth. “Are we really going to consider Fifty Shades a piece of literature though?”

“Actually,” Daisy started, turning to Jeremiah and giving him a smirk, “I wrote my thesis on a work that was considered fanfiction. Jean Rhys wrote her novel Wide Sargasso Sea in response to Jane Eyre, but from the perspective of Bertha, Rochester’s crazy first wife. I wrote about the racial difference between Rhys and Brontë and how that inspired the book. Got a nice master’s degree out of it.” Daisy shrugged happily when Jeremiah conceded, raising his hands as if to say fine, you win.

It was nice to be getting back into the swing of things. Harry’s party a few days ago had shaken me up. I hadn’t been expecting to run into one of the Styles siblings, let alone both of them. In all honesty, leaving when I had was probably the best decision I’d ever made in my life. If I had stayed, I would have downed every last beer bottle I could find and then did something regrettable, like actually forgive Harry Styles for all the shit he had put me through. Though I told Harry I was tired of being angry at him, it didn’t mean all that hatred just went away.

“There’s also the huge After phenomenon,” Daisy supplied as another example. I wanted to groan. Think of the devil and the devil shall appear. “Petra, do you still keep in touch with Harry? Do you know how he feels about the whole fanfiction thing?”

I blinked. “I, er, I’m not sure. I don’t really ask him about it.” I didn’t really talk to him at all, so it wasn’t surprising. “He doesn’t really seem like the type to mind it, I guess.”

“That’s exactly my point! Most celebrities feel flattered that audiences love them so much that they want to sit down and create a whole world for them...”

Daisy was off on her tangent again, and I knew I could sit back and relax. She’d been on the show before, which was why she was so confident and comfortable sitting in her pajamas. I also knew she talked a lot. Which was perfectly fine with me because my mind was still on how stupid I had been at the party. I shouldn’t have even stepped through the doors, and I should have left the second I found out it was his place.

Harry hadn’t tried to contact me since the party. Since it was only the week before, I hadn’t expected him to. But I was happy he seemed to be taking my words seriously. It would take time for me to stand being around him. Someone who had gotten in contact with me, however, was Gemma. She’d found me on Instagram and followed me. We’d been chatting back and forth about random and trivial things, never really bringing up her brother or the damage he’d done to me. Instead, she asked how work was going and if Veronica and Bailey were going to get engaged soon.

Daisy and I finished up our conversation and Jeremiah cut the sound. We both stood, our joints popping and creaking from sitting down in one position for so long. “That was fun, Petra.”

“Always nice having you back, Daisy.”

Jeremiah and Veronica were chatting in the booth, yet to open up the door. Which was why Daisy leaned over to me and whispered, “Hey, can I ask you a question?” Without waiting for me to respond, she continued. “Is Jeremiah seeing anyone?”

I blinked at her, surprised by what she was asking me. In the years I’d known Jeremiah, he’d only had one serious girlfriend. They lasted six months, but Jeremiah was gutted when she broke up with him. He had been telling me that he thought she was the one he was going to marry. That had been nearly two years ago. “Not that I know of. Why, you thinking about going for it?”

Daisy was a pretty girl. She had short hair cut to her shoulders, in a dark brown that nearly looked black. Right now she was wearing pajamas, but I’d seen her enough to know she was about my size, despite the fact that she towered over me by at least six inches. She’d always been kind to me. Given my track record with people, this was a big factor. “I dunno. We always have nice chats when I’m here. And he always walks me to my car. He’s sweet.” We both looked back at the booth, where Jeremiah was sitting. He was clicking away at something on the computer, looking like he was arguing with Veronica. “And damn, Petra, he’s fit as hell.”

A laugh escaped my throat, unbidden, and Daisy giggled along with me. I’d never considered Jeremiah fit, but I supposed subjectively, he was. I had always just known him as my friend Jeremiah, so there was never any attraction between us. “I think if you want to, you should go for it.” It would be nice to see Jeremiah get out of his shell a bit.

“Yeah?” When I nodded, she let out a breath. “Oh good. I thought there might have been something going on between you two.”

Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I shook my head. “He’s like an annoying older brother.”

Daisy laughed. “Well, I think I’m gonna ask for his number then. Maybe when he walks me out.”

Veronica left with a smile and a promise to see me later. Jeremiah, true to Daisy’s word, offered to walk her out to her car before Zach got here to pick him up. Which left me alone in Outset, sitting in the sound booth and getting a pad and paper. I would start listening to see if it all sounded good and jot down anything if I heard it.

My phone lit up with an Instagram message notification. I assumed it was Gemma, continuing on our conversation about Veronica and Bailey, so I picked it up absentmindedly and slid my finger across the notification to open it. When I looked down, however, I realized it was from a completely different Styles sibling.

I wanted to follow you on Instagram, but I figured I’d better ask you first.

I was trying really hard not to be mad at him, because I hadn’t lied when I said I was exhausted of it. But it was shit like this, him thinking that things were okay between us just because of one drunken lapse in judgement on my part by letting me know I liked the flowers, that made me mad.

Do whatever you want, Harry. I don’t care.

But I did care. I didn’t want him seeing my personal life. There were pictures of me at Comic-Con, pictures of me holding up a new book with the biggest grin on my face, and a video of me dancing around in an alien costume for my twenty-third birthday. Giving him access to that, to see me at my most vulnerable, was a mistake. When I glanced back down to my phone, I saw that he had read my message.

I waited for the notification that he followed me, but it never came.

#1dff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles ou #ac

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lihikainanea · 5 years ago

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I’m always in a mood for soft Bill. Like maybe he’s just tired of working so much. He’s always on a plane or on the phone. Having to make appearances when he just wants to go home to Tiger. Maybe once he’s home he lets out this soul crushing SOB because she’s not there. Maybe she popped off to the grocery store or went to get some art supplies for a craft idea. And she comes home to his sobbing , tired giant. Who just wants to fuck and cuddle and kiss and have his hair played with. 🥺

Oh man, I run my mouth so much about how tiger gets all small and lonely sometimes when he leaves...but what if Bill got that way, too? Not small, necessarily, but this poor soff giant--maybe he’s jet lagged and even a bit run down or sick, and he’s smack in the middle of a long press tour. And he already hates press tours because they feel so invasive and he just feels like a puppet, repeating the same things over and over again, while people stare and fawn and compliment him in ways that make him a little uncomfortable. But now he’s halfway through, he’s mentally exhausted, physically exhausted, he’s battling a never-ending cold, and he just wants some warmth and comfort and his tiger, smelling good like she always does and giving him all the head scritchies while he just holds her so tightly in his arms.

But tiger is thousands of miles away and he still has a week or two to go, and he’s just a mopey, sad mess. She knows it, too, when he went from calling her whenever he could, to making sure he called her at least once a day. And he’d make her do most of the talking, asking her longwinded questions. And she knows he’s down and out, but he’s not mentioning anything to her so she pokes a bit once she’s done telling him about her day.

“Hey, bud,” she coaxes, “You doing okay over there?”

She hears the heavy sigh through the phone.

“I miss you kid,” he mumbles, “I miss you and I don’t feel well and I’m exhausted and fed up and I just want to be home with you in bed. Under blankets. Getting belly rubs.”

She smiles but her heart kind of breaks.

“I miss you too, Billy Goat. You’re almost done, hang in there for another few days and then you’ll be home. And I have some spare time off I need to take, so how about once you’re home I book a few days off and we just stay at home, the two of us? How does that sound?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, and it’s pretty pitiful.

“We don’t have to go out for days, we can stay put and I’ll bundle you up and you can get all the head scratches and belly rubs you want. Just hang in there a few more days, okay?”

“Okay,” he sniffles, stopping to sneeze and then let out a frustrated whine.

But the poor dude, maybe he comes home a day early because he is really just at his wits end and the last day was only podcast interviews which he had his agent negotiate to do by phone instead. But the day he flew home, maybe tiger had a work thing that night that she really couldn’t get out of--and while she told him she wouldn’t be home and tried to do some damage control, he still whined dramatically when he got to her apartment that night and it was empty.

Pouting, he took a shower by himself, put his pyjamas on, reheated the food she had left him, and he sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a blanket cape like the sad, petulant, angry ball of emotions that he was. Then he brushed his teeth and tucked his own damn self into bed, hugging her pillow to him. She texted him hearts, said she’d be home soon, and she got the angry face emoji in return. He just wanted her.

She made it up to him when she got home, immediately going to bed and gathering him up in her arms--as much of him as could fit, which wasn’t much. But she kissed his face all over, hugged him tight as he grumbled, but he also just laid there like a log and let himself be cuddled.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Billy,” she murmured and kissed his nose. He pouted.

“I missed you,” she continued, “Did you eat?”

He nodded.

“You gonna say something, bud, or just lie there like a bump on a log?”

It was silence for a few seconds as he narrowed his eyes at her, his frown deepening in that adorable way that pinched his eyebrows together. But then, he broke.

“I don’t feel well,” he whined, and it was loud and drawn out and totally childish. She couldn’t help but smile as she shushed him softly.

“I know big guy, I know,” she tutted at him softly, “Let’s get some meds into you, and then I’m cuddling the hell out of you all night. Wait here.”

She eased him back onto the bed but he still whined when her arms detached from around him.

“I’m coming right back you big baby,” she laughed, kissing his forehead and giving his ear a playful tug.

She came back with a glass of water and some Tylenol, handing it to him as she settled in the bed. And then she pulled him to her, tucked his red nose under her chin as he tangled his legs with hers. She reached one hand into his hair to scratch softly, the other one wrapping around his back to rub up and down until she lulled him to sleep. But then halfway through, right as she was starting to drift off, he shifted--clumsy and oaf-like, contorting his back and eventually twisting around so that his back was to her chest. He grabbed her spare hand and put it on his stomach.

“Head scratches and belly rubs,” he grumbled. She smiled, patting his stomach softly.

#Leilani answers #soft bill #BFF!Bill #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard drabble

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kuntrabida · 5 years ago

Text

2. the axon snaps and thoughts can’t travel (a rant abt COVID-19, senior year spring, and college in the fall)

12 may 2020

the gap year. the fall sem. the jump cut. the FUTURE. much on my mind right now folks lmao (prob folk in singular since like one (1) person’s gonna read this ashvcxjkv)

okay so let’s break this DOWN ig. yea LET’S unpack my inner psyche and my mental baggage at this point because i’m sure that i can’t be the only one feeling this way and even if i am, i’d like to get it off my chest and not rant to the same five people who’ve heard me talk about the same sad subject throughout the entire duration of quarantine asdjfkvcxufdsw

let’s start with senior year haHA :) still haven’t gotten over that xoxo even tho i’ve tricked myself into thinking that i have! gonna refer to it as ye olde Jump Cut because that’s exactly what all this feels like... like mother nature just threw the video file of my high school experience into a fuckinn Premiere timeline or smth and slammed her fist on the W key (an esoteric reference, i know, i know, my bad, but iykyk).

THE JUMP CUT – senior year’s over and i know it’s a stupid fucking thing to be upset about during a LITERAL GLOBAL PANDEMIC where people are losing and risking their lives and entire livelihoods are being upended but i still... can’t help but feel upset and terrified and devastated about what i’ve always viewed as this buffer period in my life between high school and college to just VIBE and figure myself out a little bit more being cut short. especially when, for once, things were going so well.

god, the last thing i wanna do is sound dramatic and utterly tone deaf because I RECOGNIZE my privilege and how incredibly fortunate i am to have a roof over my head and food in my fridge and a bed with a damn duvet cover to sleep in at night but i’m... so fucking sad. i’ve BEEN so fucking sad, and i think what’s even worse is the fact that i’ve been DENYING how fucking sad i’ve been feeling because i don’t think i’m... allowed to be sad in this situation? but at the same time i consciously understand that my feelings are valid and everything... it just feels like legitimately everything else in the world right now dwarfs all my concerns combined. but alas. here i am, making a blog post about my feelings to finally try and sort them out...

i just aghsdfhxhzjlk i wasn’t finished. that really is the best way to put it. i wasn’t finished with any of it. and i suppose a lot of that is my own fault for taking all the good times for granted (but also lowkey the fault of idek who... american society? for romanticizing and commodifying the culmination of high school oop)/

i feel like so many people focus on those big milestone events associated with senior year: prom, graduation, senior awards, etc. but to me personally, and to nearly every one of the friends i’ve talked to, it’s the little things that matter most — the absence of which we feel the deepest. i miss spilling coffee on myself in the cafeteria and burning frozen pastries in the toasters and complimenting people’s outfits in the hallways and staying in the building from dawn till dusk and eating takeout on the floor and hastily texting my friends at the end of the school day asking if they wanted to hang out or if they could give me a ride home and i MISS spontaneous sushi and starbucks excursions and quiet heart to hearts in coffee shops and last minute target runs and stressing out about music events and belting in the practice rooms and learning choreography in parking lots where confused drivers would momentarily glance over and just KEEP ON DRIVING and lying on the ground in one of the school’s hallways facing the sun when the light would hit JUST RIGHT through the glass and i could close my eyes and pretend i was at the beach or on an island or in a canyon somewhere or SOMETHING, anywhere, anywhere but there. and i feel this chasm in my throat whenever i think about it because looking back at those moments, i realize that there’s literally no place i’d rather be right now than inside my high school building on a normal ass day dealing with normal ass problems with exceptional, radiant, life-giving souls there to have my back and support me and hug me wow, GOD, hug me. wow how i miss hugs. and I miss my friends. shit.

hell bro i even miss the days where everything would become a little too much for me and i’d have to find recluse in a digital media classroom and the scent of old lemon-laced coffee grounds as they brewed into dingy styrofoam cups and wandered through the halls with me during the period, into the music room where i literally grew UP and found my voice and discovered validity in my own identity and all that JAZZ and into the bathrooms where i’d spend such subtle, unsuspecting mornings with friends still practically sleepwalking and FUCK bro. frankly i’m just not ready to jump into a life where all the things i hold dear are “remember when”s. i can’t imagine this entire world that i’ve built for myself being a thing of the past, a thing that i’ll look back on as one of the best fucking times of my life even though i never realized it when it mattered, a thing i still want so so so much more of, that i am not and may not ever be ready to let go. i want it all back. but i know getting upset over it is a futile pursuit, because there’s nothing i can do, and that just fuels this feedback cycle of anger and hopelessness and denial and back again.

i do think of that good ol’ winnie the pooh quote, though. “how lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” but it doesn’t really make anything hurt any less. and i guess i’m just tired of hurting lol.

THE FUTURE – dawg what the fuck is happening with colleges in the United States right now bro what is the protocol what do i DO¿

pretty damn self explanatory. my defense mechanism has ALWAYS been, “at least things will be better a couple months from now!!!!” and yeah, with university and the reality of getting to attend my dream college fast approaching i did believe that for a hot second but CORONA DAWG CORONA just plunges everything into the sea of uncertainty. i know i’m not the only one frustrated by this damn virus and i should be comforted by the unity we all have in our confusion but lmao i do not feel any better! no! one! has! any! answers! asdjfkvlcxvjl being a graduating high school and incoming college student right now is so FUCKING confusing and frightening and once again i want to acknowledge what an incredible privilege it is to even have the option of a higher education open to me but it’s such a multifaceted and unpredictable issue this year and thinking about the future — again my go-to defense mechanism and at the very least a worthy consideration since i’ll be putting down hella dollars for it — has been the cause of so much stress...

THE FALL SEM – i! don’t! know! if! it’s! gonna! be! on!line! and i am not planning on staying in my house any longer for a goddamn variety of reasons soo i have no clue how to plan for this! no one does right now!

our administration keeps affirming that we’re planning for a return to normalcy in the fall semester but a considerable amount of students and experts alike are saying that it’s essentially a cover so no one’ll panic and decline or defer their acceptances. SO MANY OTHER COLLEGES are revealing their contingency plans to have an online semester and ahaHA if i have to STAY in this HOUSE for ANOTHER 4 MONTHS that would FRICKIN SUCK DAWG lmaO i’ll leave it at that! so i’m: very much panicking!

i know that things are so uncertain right now and there’s really no point in trying to predict what’s going to happen in the next couple of months because so many unknowns remain. i know that a lot of universities are gonna be in deep shit if they don’t open in the fall but at the same time, if it’s a damn public health risk it’s definitely better to keep as many people home as possible. but i have no CLUE what institutions are gonna end up doing and again, literally no one does either! i was listening to a podcast yesterday about university plans for the upcoming academic year and i got asdhvjckxv so stressed when they said that we could be one week away from the start of the school year and things could still be drastically different the next week... there’s just no way of knowing much of anything and god i hate that. it’s making me so goddamn anxious.

i really doubt things are going to be back to normal in New York in the fall sooo...? i don’t know man again it comes down to asking people questions they don’t have the answers to and that’s just incredibly frustrating because i just want to know ONE THING for certain right now. ONE THING! idk i just wish that my college would be a little more transparent about their plans as they move along and figure things out but i know that’s not feasible. at the very least i hope things will be safe enough for them to make dorming on campus an option — freshmen have a pretty ample amount of singles available anyway. but if i have to spend the first semester of college onLINE in THIS HOUSE that’s... gonna suck. especially because i’m still probably going to be paying thousands of dollars for it which is, as my grandmother says, foul!

THE GAP YEAR – to defer or not to defer? that is the question.

so naturally in preparation for a potentially wonky ass academic year i’m considering deferring enrollment. but lmao... the deadline to do so is in uh *checks watch* three (3) literal days so. don’t know about that chief!

like, i know i’m PROBABLY NOT gonna end up taking a gap year. but i guess it’s just the fact that i have so much more canvas space to daydream about it that makes it so appealing... there are so many more possibilities that i can think of that are more likely to be open to me. then again, nothing’s guaranteed. not even my own health in the fall. which is also pretty fuckin scary as hell.

y’all wanna know where i get my gap year daydream fuel? UNJADED JADE. bruh i’ve been binging her videos like MAD especially the ones where she interrails Europe during her gap year and UGH. it seems incredible. and that makes things even more confusing because i really don’t know what the right decision to make is right now. to defer or not to defer...

again it’s all so heavily influenced by unknowns. of all the things that could happen, i’d much prefer to have a regular freshman year fall with the people in my class whom i’ve already been getting to know pretty well through groupchats and social media and the like. they’re a pretty dope bunch and i think college with them is gonna be a hoot and a goddamn half. but if i’ll end up just staying home and watching zoom lectures in my basement anyway... i’d much rather be taking a gap year.

and i’ve been brainstorming what i’d do during this gap year (again, thanks Unjaded Jade for the god-tier content agh) and there’s just like... so many options. i could get a goddamn JOB and start saving up for tuition instead of paying tens of thousands for online school. hell with the money i make working full time i could probably save up enough to afford an apartment so at the very least i could move out of my house into a place where i feel more comfortable. and lmao I: s a l i v a t e at the thought of using that time to focus on my writing, too. the amount of writing i could get done in a year of empty calendar space... glorious. what an utterly glorious prospect.

and of course, i’d love to fucking travel, volunteer (with a reputable and well-intentioned organization) in a foreign country, do a workstay abroad, take a train across america, but again, i don’t even know if any of that’s going to be feasible in the fall. it’s so FRUSTRATING because i’ll think of a possibility and then another one comes in and completely shuts the former down.

and it’s not like i can ask anyone for advice right now because we’re ALL none the wiser. plus, i’ve realized that frankly, even if it’s unreasonable, i don’t want anyone to tell me that my plans for a gap year aren’t feasible. it’s such a petulant thing to say... but i don’t want anyone to add to my sense of there being a limited amount of options that i can take advantage of because everything’s already so goddamn stifling as is. i guess the prospect of a gap year excites me so much because it seems like a year where i don’t have to be defined by anyone or anything but myself. and that’s so fucking liberating.

i just want the freedom to imagine right now because that’s when i feel happiest, but at the same time i’m afraid to get my hopes up for anything because i have this sinking feeling that the absolute worst case scenario is going to become reality. lmao. people in my state aren’t even fucking social distancing correctly so i’m damn sure that we’re in for a second and a third wave and that’s gonna suck but people are stupid as hell :)

lol on that positive note, thanks for reading this... increasingly depressing and chaotic rant. don’t really think i’m doing this “blog” stuff right but if you got this far, i love you. leave a note if you so please, comment your thoughts, reblog if you’d like (still don’t really understand the difference between reblogging and reposting on this app but lmao feel free to click the boxy arrow thing), and stay safe and healthy and all that jazz <3

#corona #high school #senior year #college #rant #blog #if you can call a frayed amalgam of rants a blog lmao #writeblr #i'm doing this shit wrong I can FEEL IT #anyway thanks for reading #I read this back and it sounds way more dramatic and deep than it is I apologize for the melodrama

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pengiesama · 6 years ago

Text

Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross (Fic, TGCF, HC/XL)

Title: Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross Series: Heavenly Official’s Blessing (Tian Guan Ci Fu) Pairing: Hua Cheng/Xie Lian

Summary:

All of Heaven has been brought to its knees by the hot new gatcha game, Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross. The gods are at each other's throats, and are at the brink of civil war, in pursuit of the rarest of .pngs.

Chaos reigns. And it is most emphatically Hua Cheng's fault.

Link: AO3

Check out my commission info here.

Read on Tumblr!

“...so you see, profits are up from last quarter, and attendance at the gambling halls is at an all-time high,” said the bird demon at the front of the conference room. “Our Lord’s bold strategic moves in this fiscal year have broken previous records into such dust.”

“Master’s business acumen is unmatched,” stated the hog demon to the horned woman seated next to him at the polished wood table. The horned woman nodded at this sage assessment, and the rest of the room murmured in agreement.

“Unmatched.”

“Unparalleled.”

“Who other than a Supreme could wield such horrible power?”

Suddenly, the demon business consultants found their voices silenced. They could not utter a peep -- it was as though an invisible hand had reached down their gullets to pluck out their tongues. But there was little mystery to who had performed such a feat. A perceptible dark aura had descended upon the room, and at the center of it all was the object of their praise and adulation: their Lord himself, Hua Cheng. Despite their acclaim, despite the numbers from last quarter’s gross profits displayed prominently on the overhead projector in a neat, color-coordinated bar graph, Hua Cheng’s expression was grave. He swirled red wine in a goblet of fine, translucently white porcelain.

After a long and deliberate silence to build up an appropriate sense of dread, Hua Cheng spoke.

“Not good enough.”

He hurled the porcelain goblet against the wall, splattering its contents -- looking to all the world as red blood and white bone, a scene of spectacular violence. Hua Cheng snapped his fingers and a nearby handmaiden handed him an identical goblet. Hua Cheng swirled it again, once, twice, before he spoke once more.

“Profits are up,” Hua Cheng repeated, mockingly. “An all-time high. Meaningless. I need more than that.”

His consultants said nothing, out of terror. And also out of still not being able to speak because Hua Cheng stole their voices. Hua Cheng seemed to remember this part only belatedly, as he waited a little bit too long for a response. He rolled his good eye, sighed in frustration, and gave the bird consultant his voice back.

The bird consultant knew he had a role to play in this scene, and wasted no time embracing it. “M-my lord!” he coughed, trying to get his tongue back in the right place in his throat. “Whatever do you mean?”

Hua Cheng threw another goblet against the wall, and accepted its replacement in his waiting hand.

“I have built an empire on cards and dice. However, there remains the need to attract more clientele. New clientele. Clientele that think themselves too good, too noble to enter my gambling halls. Tempt them, ensnare them, enslave them -- only then will I approach the profits needed for my ultimate goal.”

Their Lord’s riches were unparalleled -- truly, the stuff of legends. Mountains of gold, oceans of jewels. Jurisdiction over the nether realm, command over an army of souls and a bottomless abyss of power. Wealth that even the richest of kingdoms could only ever dream of. To lust for more and more was the nature of demons, to be certain. But their Lord’s aspirations seemed to be approaching the limits of reality itself.

“Such devious and lofty ambition is surely within my lord’s reach,” said the bird consultant, with utter sincerity -- for it was a simple truth that everything was within reach for their lord, the king of the ghosts, the lord of the demons, the terror of the heavens. “But does my lord already have something specific in mind?”

Hua Cheng was idly throwing goblet after goblet at the wall, clearly bored of the meeting. “I do. I don’t care about your input, and I don’t know why I pay you or why I have these meetings. You’re all dismissed. Bye.”

The demon consultants found their tongues forcibly returned to their mouths, and they quietly filed out of the room, trying to reattach them properly. It was no use, and was entirely unwise, to inquire any further into their lord’s plans.

After all, surely, they would find out soon enough.

Xie Lian was used to being out of the loop on the latest trends in Heaven. It didn’t really bother him -- he was just too old to keep up with this gossip or that fashion trend or that new joke, especially when it was sure to be old hat in a week or less. What’s more, it was always so awkward trying to fit in. He distinctly remembered the pain on Shi Qing Xuan’s face as he tried to explain to Xie Lian why that picture of a frog puppet on fire was relevant to the current conversation in the heavenly array. Xie Lian still didn’t understand. Why would someone want to set a puppet on fire? It seemed like a perfectly good puppet. He probably could have put on a street performance with it.

“It’s just like -- an expression! It’s you! You’re all excited and on fire and you’re the frog puppet!” Shi Qing Xuan explained, in increasingly desperate tones.

“I’m not a frog puppet,” Xie Lian said. “And I don’t want to be on fire. It hurts, trust me.”

Shi Qing Xuan lowered his head to the table and buried himself under his voluminous silken sleeves. “You are the least cash money person I have ever met.”

“Sorry,” Xie Lian said. “I am the trash god, you know.”

In any case, Xie Lian’s willful ignorance of popular trends allowed him to live a peaceful -- if uncool -- life. But as he was soon to discover, one cannot escape from the cold, clammy grasp of popular culture entirely.

Xie Lian didn’t remember why he’d needed to visit Heaven, that day. Perhaps he’d needed to get some holy water from the celestial stream, perhaps he’d needed to gather herbs to make medicine, perhaps he was just feeling masochistic and wanted to go to a place where everyone deliberately ignored him. Whatever the reason, it was as though he had stepped into the realm of the damned.

Gods stumbled down the streets, mumbling to themselves as they tapped away at glowing screens that floated in the palms of their hands. Cries of joy and cries of despair echoed from the palaces and alleyways. All around him, Xie Lian saw faces twisted by anguish, by ecstasy, by madness -- still more with eyes that were utterly dead to the world. Xie Lian almost thought that he had made a wrong turn, and had landed in the entertainment district of the Ghost City by mistake. But no. This was Heaven, but somehow, it had become overrun with the unmistakable aura of hell.

Surely no one would have blamed Xie Lian if he had simply turned around and left. But alas, he never did know how to leave well enough alone. Xie Lian hastened to the Windmaster’s mansion, hoping against hope that Shi Qing Xuan was still in possession of his full faculties...or as full faculties as could be expected from such a devoted follower of hot trends. It took a few knocks, but eventually, Shi Qing Xuan answered the door. Xie Lian was disheartened to see that he (well, currently she, for the present moment) had that same glowing screen in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand; however, Shi Qing Xuan’s expression was still bright and cheery, her eyes still clear. With any luck, she still had enough strength of will left to answer questions.

“Just in time!” Shi Qing Xuan said cheerily, dragging Xie Lian in by his wrist. “I’m about to stream my next few dozen ten-rolls. You can be my guest commentator! Ming-Xiong and I have a channel, you know, and we can always use guest commentators, because Ming-Xiong doesn’t really talk, he just eats into his microphone even though we’re not a mukbang stream except when it’s Thursday and we’re a mukbang stream. We have a podcast, too, did you know that?”

“No,” Xie Lian said. “I didn’t.”

“Well, if you stick around, you can be a guest on that too!” Shi Qing Xuan said cheerfully. “Come come, sit here so the cameras can see you.”

Xie Lian settled down awkwardly, watching as Shi Qing Xuan attached her glowing screen to a strange setup. Ming Yi didn’t seem to acknowledge his presence at all, and continued to engage in the activity that he had been partaking in since they entered the room, which was slurping noodles extremely loudly into a microphone. A large screen displayed on one of the walls, showing the camera footage of the three of them in the room, and showing a scrolling feed of the conversation taking place in the heavenly array -- as well as a running tally of the merits that were being tossed their way. Xie Lian was extremely puzzled as to what they were doing that merited...merits. Every time Ming Yi made an especially loud slurp or finished another bowl of noodles, a new wave of donations pinged onto the screen. Pictures of that frog puppet kept popping up in the chat, in new and strange situations.

Frog puppets. Noodles. Podcasts. Heaven transforming into hell. And Xie Lian could do nothing but watch.

“Hey everyone! We’ve got a special guest today; he’ll be chatting with us while I whale for my new outfit card in Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross!”

“You’re doing what to a whale?” Xie Lian asked, regretting the question when it wasn’t even fully out of his mouth.

Shi Qing Xuan laughed uproariously, then stopped, seeming to realize from previous experience that Xie Lian wasn’t joking. However, instead of having a swooning fit over Xie Lian’s uncoolness as she usually did, she seemed to have the scent of something interesting. She scooted in close, closer, closer. Xie Lian fought the urge to bolt.

“Xie Lian. Your highness. Lemme ask you this. Do you know what Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross is?”

“Absolutely not,” Xie Lian said.

“He doesn’t know!” Shi Qing Xuan crowed with glee, clapping her hands in delight. “He doesn’t know at all! Your highness, it’s only the most popular game in the Heavens right now. Or like, ever. You seriously haven’t heard of it?”

“Not at all,” Xie Lian said. He looked around for anything that resembled a game board. “It’s a game? Where are the game pieces?”

Shi Qing Xuan gestured with a flourish to the screen display, her sleeves fluttering like leaves in the wind with the motion. “You’re looking right at them, your highness.”

On the screen, there was...a series of pictures of Shi Qing Xuan, in a dizzying variety of different outfits. Shi Qing Xuan pointed to each one, proudly.

“This is me in my travelling robes, and this is me when I’m feeling a little sassy and want to go out incognito dressed as a simple but also beautiful mortal cultivator, and this is me except I’m a schoolgirl, and oh, there’s me when I’m a schoolboy too, and this is me on a day out at the beach in a cute polka-dot bikini and couture sunglasses and kicky little high heels, and this is me as a Santa Claus -- watch out or else you’ll be on my naughty list, Ming-Xiong!”

Ming Yi had nothing to say to that except another loud slurp. Another torrent of merits pinged on the screen.

“And this is me as a sexy cat burglar, and this is me as a famous idol singer, and this is me as a dazzling bride, and this is me as a star athlete, if you’ll notice the diamond-studded booty shorts, and this is me as a pastry chef, and--”

“Windmaster,” Xie Lian interrupted, seeing that Shi Qing Xuan was not about to stop any time soon. “Would you be so patient as to explain to me how one plays with...such game pieces as these?”

Shi Qing Xuan squinted at the screen, frowning. “...I dunno, I just pick whatever outfits I’m in the mood for and then let the auto-battle option do the rest. Anyway, this is another idol outfit, but it’s from a different collab and in THIS one you can see that I’m wearing striped panties--”

“Is there an aim to the game?” Xie Lian prodded gently, trying to keep Shi Qing Xuan on...some sort of track that didn’t just involve her showing off her pretend closet for the next hour. “Does one battle against any sort of opponents?”

“Ugh, you martial gods and your one-track minds,” Shi Qing Xuan sighed and shook her head. “Yes, I guess you fight monsters and stuff. And like, you can join a team with people on your friend list and take on raid battles with them -- those are like, battles with really strong opponents. And once you kill ‘em you get prizes.”

Xie Lian gave a polite “hm.” He supposed he could see the appeal of practicing strategy with such a...low-impact method, but he wasn’t convinced it would impart any real-world benefits when it came to actual combat. He didn’t become a martial god by sitting inside playing xiangqi, after all.

“There’s a story.” Ming Yi had finally diverted his attention from his noodles. He cleared his throat, and squared his jaw, clearly itching to say more. “In the game.”

Shi Qing Xuan gestured wildly with her fan. “Yeah, that too! In the idol collab there was a WHOLE story about me and Ming-Xiong and I forget who else teaming up with a bunch of mortal girls who were desperate to save their school from closing, so they offered up a prayer and--”

“The MAIN story,” Ming Yi cut in. “Is about a sect of cultivators out to save humanity from a prophecy of destruction. They summon the aid of the gods to help in their battle, and along the way, they encounter many twists and turns and eventually they discover that the prophecy came from a mysterious race of aliens from beyond the stars who wish to sacrifice humanity in a crucible to split off the timeline, but in actuality this already happened millennia ago, or maybe millennia in the future if you think about it laterally, or maybe it happens in a cycle or all at once, but whatever the case may be the heroes must find a way to unite the True Timeline with the Dark Timeline, but which timeline is real? What will become of our heroes when the timelines are merged? Also the main character cultivator who’s kind of a blank slate but not really if you play the sub-scenarios has an evil twin or possibly an alternate-reality clone who can summon the power of the demon kings and it’s not clear if he’s working with the aliens or a rival cultivation sect or if he’s just a rogue agent out to sow chaos and destruction--”

Shi Qing Xuan started slurping noodles as loud as she possibly could, and the noise combined with the rush of pinging merits drowned out Ming Yi as he continued to confuse and vex everyone who heard him. Fuming, Ming Yi returned to his task of eating his feelings.

“Anyway,” Shi Qing Xuan said, daintily wiping her mouth, careful not to smear her lip rouge. “You get it now, your highness?”

“A bit,” Xie Lian said, lying through his teeth to avoid having it explained further.

“Great! Now, you get all these cute little cards by drawing for them in a lottery, and you can either grind for free game currency by toiling away on tasks...or you can just buy currency and draw until you get everything you want!”

Shi Qing Xuan’s tone clearly showed which method of cultivation she preferred. Still, when it came to matters of luck and lottery, it was best for Xie Lian to not get involved at all.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Windmaster, but I wouldn’t want to upset your fortune by staying here. I wish you and your whale the best of luck in…” He gestured vaguely. “...cultivation?”

“Nononono, stay! C’mon, did you think I didn’t remember about your Thing when I invited you in?” Shi Qing Xuan lunged forward and dragged Xie Lian back down to sit on the colorful silk cushions. “It’s so BORING doing this with just Ming-Xiong to keep me company -- it’ll totally be a hoot to see how bad our rolls are with you in the room! I’ll just draw for my new outfit later. It’s for the ballet event, by the way.”

“Oh,” said Xie Lian.

“I’m a swan princess,” Shi Qing Xuan elaborated. “Cursed by a dark wizard to force me to be his bride. Bird by day, fair maiden by moonlight. And only a kiss from a prince can save me!”

“I see,” said Xie Lian.

“Odette dies at the end of that ballet,” Ming Yi noted.

“Nuh-uh!” Shi Qing Xuan shot back. “The wizard turns into a big ugly monster and the prince shoots him and then the prince cries on her body and stuff and she’s alive somehow! And she’s a human again but she can still turn into a swan for all the sequels. There was a turtle and a penguin or something too.”

Ming Yi stared at Shi Qing Xuan with a mouthful of noodles, and Shi Qing Xuan took this as a victory, somehow. With a flourish, she presented her glowing screen to Xie Lian. There was so much going on that Xie Lian didn’t even know what he was looking at. Beautiful fairies with petal wings, with butterfly wings, fluttered here and there, glowing orbs and blooming flowers decorated banners encouraging players to “draw now!” And surely players had a glut of choices to draw from. There was a banner with Shi Qing Xuan pouting and winking at the camera, there was a banner with Feng Xin and Mu Qing facing each other down with bow and spear in hand, there was even a banner with the Rain Master’s loyal ox assistant...wearing a black blindfold, white wig, and a short, frilly black dress. (“Geez, is that Nier collab still going on?” asked Shi Qing Xuan.)

Shi Qing Xuan tapped on one of the banners, and pointed to a glowing button on the bottom of the screen. A set of eight fairies fluttered their wings, just waiting for their cue to pull back the curtain and reveal what awaited behind it.

“Press the button,” beseeched Shi Qing Xuan, wriggling in place. “Press it, press it, c’mon, your highness!”

“It’s your money on the line,” Xie Lian said, simply, and tapped the screen.

A lavishly-animated cinematic played on the screen. The fairies swirled around the white-clad cultivator character, who raised their sword to the sky -- causing the clouds to split with a crack of thunder. Rainbow light filled the screen, and energetic strings and drums added to the assault on the senses.

“Oooh!” Shi Qing Xuan clapped her hands in excitement. “Rainbow clouds! You got me at least one ultra-rare card out of that, your highness! I think your luck’s finally turning around!”

“Maybe it’s just that his luck’s so bad that it got confused and looped around,” Ming Yi said.

Shi Qing Xuan nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, honestly, that’s more likely.”

“I won’t exactly argue,” Xie Lian said. “But I must protest.”

The cinematic finally ended, and the results of the draw displayed on the screen. Xie Lian squinted, a bit confused at what he was seeing. Shi Qing Xuan and Ming Yi’s jaws had both dropped to the floor; struck into speechlessness by the outcome. But the silence was quite brief. Shi Qing Xuan let out a shriek that rattled the windows and had the microphones panging with horrible feedback.

“THEY DO EXIST! YOU DO EXIST!” Shi Qing Xuan leapt onto Xie Lian, shaking him by the shoulders. “NO ONE’S EVER MANAGED TO FIND YOU BUT YOU JUST FOUND YOU! FOR ME! LIVE! ON MY STREAM!”

Xie Lian briefly glanced at the array chat, which was absolutely exploding with expressions of excitement, of disbelief, of frog puppets. All over -- him? Xie Lian didn’t understand. Least of all because Shi Qing Xuan was making no sense at all and was no longer able to control the pitch of her voice. It was rapidly approaching levels that only dogs could hear.

The roll he’d made was impressive, evidently, by the game’s standards. He’d figured out that much. But...all the cards were just...him. Him in various outfits. There he was in his plain white robes and straw hat, dangling his bare feet in a stream while animated flower petals drifted around him and Ruoye twirled about his ankles. There he was as the flower-crowned martial god, wielding Fang Xin and flinging his golden mask aside as he reached into the air as if to catch something. There he was, holding his hat to his head and smiling over his shoulder at the camera, reaching out his hand as if to beseech the viewer to take it. There he was, in light and colorful summer robes, dancing under lantern light to the beat of the festival drums. There he was, face half-hidden behind the hood of a voluminous wool-lined cloak, warming his hands on a mug of tea as snow swirled around him. There he was, as -- as a bride, gazing demurely up at the camera with blushing cheeks and parted lips as his mystery groom drew back his veil…

“Um,” Xie Lian said. “You...you don’t have to use any of these. As game pieces. In fact, please don’t.”

Shi Qing Xuan briefly stopped screaming directly in Ming Yi’s ear long enough to whirl around, wild-eyed. She flashed a terrifying grin at him.

“I am the only person ever to have gotten even one card of you, let alone ten,” Shi Qing Xuan said. “I am going to show off so much.”

“These cards have amazing stats,” Ming Yi was murmuring to himself. Excitement was coloring his normally-expressionless face. “They’re just broken. They’ll revolutionize the meta. I’ll have to update the wiki; all the literature gods are going to be SO pissed that I got to it first…okay, the game crashes when you try to equip the Chef card, I’ll list that as a bug...”

Shi Qing Xuan snapped her fingers at Ming Yi, and Ming Yi wordlessly handed the glowing screen back to her. They were both staring at Xie Lian with expressions of determination, of hunger. Xie Lian’s eyes scanned the room, looking for the best escape route.

“Your highness,” Shi Qing Xuan said, voice dripping with sweetness. She offered the screen with both hands, and inched closer, closer. “Won’t you roll for us again? Once, twice more, maybe?”

Which would turn into thrice more, which would turn into him being locked in the mansion’s basement for the next month. Xie Lian had no talent for fortune-telling, but he wasn’t blind to where this was going. Those windows looked extremely breakable, surely it would only take a single kick. They were up rather high, however, and Xie Lian couldn’t afford to land wrong and be hobbled with the Windmaster in hot pursuit -- and, from the array’s continuing reaction, perhaps all of Heaven would be only steps behind as well --

Suddenly, there was an announcement on the screen, heralded by the rumble of drums. Shi Qing Xuan and Ming Yi were distracted enough for Xie Lian to start creeping towards the door to make a stealthier escape.

“It’s…a flash event! A limited-edition raid!” Shi Qing Xuan read off the screen, with growing excitement. “‘A Raid for the Strongest and the Prettiest Only’ -- Ming-Xiong, that’s us, that’s us, it’s only us, right?”

“Obviously,” Ming Yi said, rolling his eyes. He summoned his own glowing screen.

“Tell the rest of the guild to get online! Right now!”

“No need. We’ve got ten secret weapons in our deck. Lead off with the one of him in the teahouse waitress outfit, that’s a buffing card, then swoop in with the pincer of the orchestra card and the one of him in the bunny ears, then mop up whatever’s left with that overly-horny one of him in the river flashing his ankles…”

The raid had apparently begun, and to Xie Lian’s surprise, his cards really did seem like they were useful...or as far as he could tell, they were useful. They were easily cutting through the little green goblin sprites that advanced across the screen, and there were a lot of loud noises and flashing colors. It covered his escape quite nicely, and Xie Lian was able to creep out of the mansion and back onto the heavenly avenues without being stuffed into a sack and imprisoned in a locked room, to tap a screen until his finger fell off.

The rest of Heaven was under the same thrall that had swept Shi Qing Xuan and Ming Yi away -- they stood motionless in place, or paced in circles, furiously tapping and swiping away at their screens. The raid had apparently interrupted a real-life brawl between Feng Xin and Mu Qing, and they lay slumped against each other for support, bruised and bloodied and clutching their screens, as they battled for the title of Strongest and Prettiest.

It was truly outstanding. Whoever was behind this game now held control over Heaven -- surely, an entire army could leisurely stroll down the streets and not be confronted by a single god, so engrossed they were in their virtual world. Xie Lian briefly wondered if Jun Wu was a fan, too. He imagined a horde of demons sauntering into the hall that housed the throne of Heaven, and pushing Jun Wu off of it with a single finger as he poked away at his screen. Xie Lian shuddered. Those thoughts were probably some form of blasphemy.

Who could manage this kind of feat? Who was cunning enough? Skilled enough? Audacious enough?

There was only one possible answer, and luckily, Xie Lian had a standing invitation to dinner with him any time he pleased.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian said, bowing at the entrance to Hua Cheng’s study. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

Hua Cheng’s expression was warm and welcoming as he rose from his desk to greet Xie Lian at the door.

“My home is always open to you. But to what do I owe the pleasure of a surprise visit? I haven’t had the time to prepare any treats for us, nor the time to prepare my heart for seeing gege’s face and hearing his voice.”

“Oh, stop,” Xie Lian said, waving off Hua Cheng’s teasing. “I just wanted to...lay low here, for a little while. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” Hua Cheng’s eye was shining, and his expression was warm as he regarded Xie Lian. He was certainly in a pleasant mood today; Xie Lian hoped his unannounced visit wouldn’t dampen things. “I’ll have a guest room prepared, and we’ll have a feast tonight -- I can have a bath drawn for you while you wait, and I have many fragrant oils I can comb into gege’s hair while he relaxes--”

“Have you heard of a game called Celestial Cultivation Conference?” asked Xie Lian.

“I could rename it to that if gege finds Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross too unappealing,” Hua Cheng said. “We could discuss it after we settle on which oil you prefer.”

“Ah,” Xie Lian said. “So you are the mind behind that game. It’s causing quite the crisis in Heaven right now.”

“Oh yes,” Hua Cheng said, his eye crinkling as he smiled. “I know. Almond oil?”

“And you’re responsible for all those strange outfit cards.”

“I outsource some of the art to trusted assistants,” Hua Cheng said. “Though I take care of the most important art personally. Coconut oil?”

Xie Lian eyed him warily. “...and you’re responsible for the game’s, ah, story?”

Hua Cheng made a face. “Ah, your highness, please don’t remind me. No, I outsourced that nonsense too, but I fear I should have paid more attention when the ghostwriter submitted it for approval. No one plays this thing for the story but one has to have standards.”

Xie Lian turned this thought over in his mind. The corner of his mouth twitched. “...ghostwriter?”

Hua Cheng bared his teeth in a wide grin, and Xie Lian snorted before smacking him on the arm lightly. In truth, he didn’t blame Hua Cheng for the...situation in Heaven, nor could he really blame the game itself. No one was ever forced to participate in any of Hua Cheng’s various business ventures. There never any trickery, any unfairness -- Hua Cheng clearly found it far more entertaining to watch as people leapt into his stewpot of their own free will; motivated by greed and pride and vanity and jealousy and other such dark drivers of the human condition. And this new game of his seemed to bring out all of said emotions in spades.

“Rose oil,” Hua Cheng declared with an air of finality. “Its fragrance will suit you. I’ll ring for bath water--”

“Ah!” Xie Lian clapped his hands together. “There were workers here digging a hot spring the last time I visited, yes? I asked them what they were working on. Have they finished?”

Hua Cheng’s eyebrows rose, and he pouted briefly. “...yes. That was supposed to be a special surprise. I haven’t finished arranging it to receive gege yet.”

Xie Lian’s shoulders drooped. “Ah...I understand, I’m sorry for being so forward. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a nice soak. And you mentioning oils reminded me how lovely it is to soothe sore muscles with a massage after a long dip in the springs...”

A pulse of energy palpably resonated through the manor’s structure, nearly knocking Xie Lian off his feet.

“Actually, I forgot, it’s arranged right now,” Hua Cheng said hastily. He rubbed at his arm where Xie Lian had swatted him earlier. “Did I happen to mention that my arm has been very sore lately?”

Xie Lian tutted and shuffled in to take Hua Cheng’s wrist in one hand, and his elbow in the other, flexing the arm carefully to check for stiffness. The floodgates had been opened, and now Xie Lian would talk about health and wellness until physically restrained. “Now, San Lang, you can’t ignore your body like that. If you’re sore or stiff, then you should visit a doctor.”

Driven on by an earnest and entirely innocent passion for Hua Cheng’s well-being, Xie Lian felt his way up Hua Cheng’s bicep with one hand, checking for muscle knots and tender spots.

“I don’t feel anything particularly off, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not hurting. It does mean that I’ll have to give you a more general workup instead of just targeting your arm, though, since I’m not sure of the source of the problem. Will it bother you if I massage your neck and back? Perhaps your thighs and calves, too. Are there any sensitive spots I should avoid?”

Hua Cheng’s expression was blank, and he had a faraway look in his eye. “...his highness may...workup wherever pleases him…”

Xie Lian smiled. “You’re a model patient, San Lang. Fetch that rose oil you mentioned? It’ll suit you, too.”

And so, profits that year broke all previous records, especially after the surprise release of the Hot Springs Set; the most overly horny collection yet in the hottest app on the market. From the creator that brought you My Sword Boyfriend and Rabbit Turf War, download Celestial Confluence/Cultivation Cross today!

“Hey. Hey. Crimson Rain Seeks Flower.”

“...”

“I’m way too cute and way too annoying to ignore so I know you heard me! So, Crimson Rain Seeks Flower. As my third-best friend--”

“That is an exceedingly unfortunate sentiment if true, Windmaster.”

“--as my third-best friend, I think you owe me the full scoop on what you’re doing with all this dough you’ve been raking in. C’mon, c’mon. I just wanna make sure you’re investing it wisely!”

Hua Cheng mulled things over for a moment, then pulled a small, elegant notebook from his pocket.

“Investments for the future. Savings accounts to ensure our children receive the best education. Retirement funds -- I wish to be able to eventually devote myself entirely to serving at Qiandeng Temple, you see, and to pass off the reins of the business to one of the children who proves to have a head for it. And before any of that,” Hua Cheng continued. “Wedding planning is quite expensive and tiring indeed. Choosing gowns, choosing flowers, choosing menus for dinner and lunch and brunch and tea and dessert. Bringing together all the guests on my guest list has proven to be quite the headache in and of itself.”

Shi Qing Xuan peeked at the list. “...what’s a ‘Hatsune Miku’? And a ‘Beyonce’?”

Hua Cheng rolled his eye and sighed at Shi Qing Xuan’s lack of culture. “The artists performing at the reception will hail from dimensions far and wide. Which brings us to another item proving to be quite expensive; researching interdimensional travel. Once that’s settled, we’ll be able to finalize the guest list and start looking for a patissier capable of bringing my cake design into reality.”

Hua Cheng smiled at Shi Qing Xuan warmly, and Shi Qing Xuan hesitantly smiled back, unsure of how to react to this sudden outpouring of Crimson Rain’s most secret desires. Hua Cheng snapped his fingers in Shi Qing Xuan’s face, and after a split-second, the Windmaster sighed and slumped over.

“And you won’t remember a word of that when you wake up, because I know you’ll run that mouth of yours and spoil the surprise for gege,” Hua Cheng finished. “I just know he’ll love Miku.”

#天官赐福 #tgcf #heavenly official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #hualian #a tenderly crafted fanfiction

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sambinnie · 8 years ago

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All links mentioned are clustered at the end, if you’d like to read/listen to them too.

I’ve never been one for the middle road, in habits, emotions or tendencies, but if there’s one thing 2016 has taught me — I hope — it’s that it’s possible for me. At last. I’ve been more willing, as I’ve grown fractionally older, to welcome the change of heart that time and experience bring; I’ve been more likely to say, ‘Well, this is how I feel at the moment, but who knows,’ rather than, ‘No! Never! Impossible!’ Only there have been some hold-outs from this: some political groups, some voting histories, some educational choices, anti-freedom groups, hate groups. Thankfully, they could all be bundled up in my mind as Big Bads, so I didn’t need to ever fear that I could be wrong about any of them: and if someone had expressed those choices, even once, even in error or misunderstanding or drunkenness or foolishness, or ever been associated with anyone who’d expressed those choices, then great! Into the barrel of doom with them, and good riddance!

I have loved so much of social media, so much of the quickness of thought to make the jokes, dark or otherwise, because that’s how I see the world. The kindness, too: those people who tap a “xxx” or a digital embrace to someone suffering. I’ve been at both ends of that, and it feels good.

2016, however, and everything we’re seeing unfold from that and the last few years before it, has made me wonder at the meaningfulness of these interactions. Other people than me have written about this, probably better than me, and research can show whatever we want it to (also known as ‘2016’s catchphrase’) but some gut instinct in me has hollered louder and louder than social media does nothing, for me, in quite a major way. I’m sure anyone who’s reading this can give me some counter arguments — friendships, business contacts, social and political movements — but there is a hollowness to my life on there. On here, I suppose I should say. Having been mostly off it for several months now, I can see with greater clarity that the time I spend with friends and family on sofas and bar stools and around kitchen tables, without photos, or hashtags, or tagging, or comments, just ephemeral conversation and moments that are gone forever: these times have been better for me, and have filled some deeper need.

And of course social media can be an educational, fascinating place. It’s hilarious to suggest otherwise. So congratulations and a big shiny medal to me if I now understand that Black Lives Matter, or grasp the violence that faces the average transgender man or woman, or see that even the most supportive, feminist man occasionally uses language and jokes that chip away at the average woman. Those fights are easy to understand and easier to engage in.

But – and here’s the tricky bit – how much time did I give, really, to thinking about why someone would support and vote and fight and hurt people for beliefs opposite to mine? It’s not comfortable to defend these people, to acknowledge that they are human and have family they love and interests they believe to be best. It’s not easy to say, in my circles, But What About Straight White Men, when we’ve had such a bloody great time turning them into the butt of every smart, knowing, accurate, deserved joke. But the number of people I know on social media who are actively trying to make the world better (could count on two hands) rather than just spitting into someone’s online soup (thousands) is worth my consideration, if I’m spending hours a day with them. And the things we’ve hated in those hours! We hate this film. This politician is trash. That TV programme is shit — look at this gif about it! The readers of those newspapers are just a dumpster fire of burning garbage.

So this is what I’ve concluded, after much thinking and reading and listening: that there are two issues here. Two things that tie my feelings about social media and my feelings about what’s on social media together: firstly, nuance, and secondly, opportunity versus morality.

Nuance, as Jon Ronson (a man who’s had his share of online kickings) says on the Guys We’ve Fucked podcast*, is wildly unfashionable now. Pick a side! Quickly! Don’t worry about circumstance, or history, or mis-readings, or context! Just go go go get our boots on and pile in! My online bubble that I’ve been happy to cosy up in seems the same: straight white guys: be quiet. Leave voters: racists. Republicans: racist misogynist climate-change deniers who should also be quiet. It doesn’t matter why they feel that way. Let’s just remind them as forcibly as we can that they are hateful humans we don’t want to dirty our hands with, and that’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget! After seeing our scorching memes, they’ll be thinking like we do in no time! Except: they are actual people. Everyone’s frightened of something, and whether or not I agree with the veracity of the source of that fear, they’re still feeling afraid. They still have goals, which I may or may not agree with, but those goals won’t change if I tell them their goals are trash. In an episode of the Invisibilia podcast* called Flip the Script, Hanna Rosin visits Aarhus to talk to the police who decided to stop prosecuting young Muslim men travelling to Syria to fight for Isis, and instead engaged with them, offering them care and support, employment and housing. They made them feel like they were welcome in Denmark, that this was their home, and in 2015, even when traffic was spiking from Europe, only one individual left Aarhus to fight. In the programme, Jamal, a young Danish muslim, says of his feelings before this positive intervention received him, ‘I thought: they call me terrorist? I will give them a terrorist.’ Treat those we disagree with as racists, as misogynists, as bigots, as fascists, and guess how they’ll be tempted to behave. (Side note: It’s also really worth listening to the Adam Buxton conversations* with Richard Ayoade, Iain Lee and Jon Ronson (again!) talking from various different angles about kindness, nuance, context, and how it feels to be a Woody Allen fan these days. Also, there’s a stand-up routine by Louis CK – helloooo, problematic public figure – which also covers nicely the idea of correctly using The Right Terms but having not great goals with it, and being pummelled for using Incorrect Language but wanting to communicate positive ideas. I can’t link to it as it autoplayed on Netflix while I was painting the hall, but the thought was pretty smart.)

As Oliver Burkeman said in his This Column Will Change Your Life piece*, it’s moderation that’s key to a better world, not battling for victory. No one really ever wins a war. As This American Life’s podcast* on Reconsideration showed, it’s giving people a chance to be listened to that offers that chance to change minds, not shouting them down with facts that will only make them dig their heels in harder. Anger is a vital political tool, but my anger too often feels like hatred, or disdain, or dismissal. It serves no purpose. It’s a toxic, pixelled sledgehammer. It makes the world worse. I’ve really been doing a shitty job at making things nicer, guys.

Secondly: opportunity versus morality. As part of my feminist beliefs, I’ve been pro-Instagram; why should some dude tell me what I can and can’t photograph? If people like my lunch pic, what’s wrong with that? If I look great and want to record and share it, what the hell is your problem? Only suddenly, as I’ve been using it less and less, Instagram looks so lonely to me. I think of the humans at the end of Wall-E, tapping their screens and never looking up, and that’s how it feels: I like the sunset someone else has photographed while I’m missing it because I’m looking at my phone. And even if I’m snapping it myself to share — what am I missing by not just looking at the damn thing, and letting it pass through me, a beautiful gift to warm my soul? Do I really believe the tech ads about how much better a father’s night in the woods is with his kid because he brought their tablet along? I know the feeling in me when I pick up my phone to take a picture of something with the intention of sharing it, and it feels like a greasy, dizzy dilution. For me, it’s not about the over-curation of our perfect online lives, but about the inability to live in my offline life without outside approval. I’m not having real fun until 20, 50, 1000 people have liked it too!

And putting that smartphone opportunity up against my moral code: just because we can do something, should we? If I can live-tweet a couple arguing on a train journey, does that make it not nightmarishly intrusive? If I Instagram a photo of someone in a terrible outfit, does that make me a warrior for underprivileged rights? If I pause every lunch with friends to take photos to post online for others to view and like or not like, am I connecting more, or less? Am I making the world a more claustrophobic, judgemental, short-sighted place if I collude in this weird global surveillance?

And god knows, I’m a hypocrite. I’ve been mean as mean can be, online and off-, about people whose political views I disagree with. I’ve Instagrammed my Christmas day lunches, my children’s artwork, my brunches with friends, my views from a train. But why have I interrupted the flow of conversation or silence before the play started to post a picture of the theatre stage and ceiling? Why have I unintentionally asked my family to hold off from eating because I wanted a picture of the meal I’ve just made? Why did I stop thinking about whatever I was thinking about just to snap an image of the sky? I’ve thought and thought and can’t get any further than Because other people might like it. Which is, to me, right now, at this moment, fathomlessly sad. (But who knows how I’ll feel next week, a year from now, twenty years from now?)

Have some ideas on social media changed me? Of course. People and articles have educated me hugely in ways that have hopefully made me a better person. But do those new, positive and instructive ideas warrant staying on social media? Not at the moment. Twitter is a thousand people shouting apocalypse at me, Facebook is an algorithmic sink and Instagram is an endless time-suck scroll of kids I’m not playing with, art I’m not making, trips I’m not taking, food I’m not cooking, homes I’m not helping people into, chances I’m not helping others receive, political aspirations I’m not supporting because I’m just swiping my finger along this screen tap tap tap swipe tap swipe tap swipe swipe swipe…

But right now, I’m trying to make changes. I’m off twitter, I’ve deleted my Facebook profile, I’ve turned my Instagram to private and am slowly weaning myself off it (I still hit like at what I’m seeing, but the (v good, v scary) Moment app is also making me realise how much of my day — my life — is lost to tapping a heart icon on a flat screen next to a photograph someone else has taken that ultimately means nothing to me as pixels on a screen). The cards, notes, emails and texts I’ve sent and received over the last month or two have made me realise how much more valuable these quiet interactions are to me at the moment. I think about the adults I’d like our kids to grow up into: outward-facing, forward-looking, clear-eyed, generous with their time, generous with their thoughts, independent, handy (all the way from cooking and cleaning, through to crafting and mending and building), confident, kind. And it doesn't matter that I’m thinking of it in terms of my kids: like those men we laugh at for only finding feminism once they have a daughter (who cares why they found it! they found it! they're engaging!) it’s not about whether or not I have children. It’s about which adults we want to share the world with. Adults we might disagree with, but whom we could hopefully rely on for respectful conversation, thoughtfulnesss, retreat on either side, apologies, space for error, learning, growth, change.

I’m not saying we should forgive anyone who asks for it — only maybe I am, because what does the alternative produce? And I’m not saying we should love everyone in the world, no matter what they’ve done in the past or continue to do in the future — only I guess, I suppose, perhaps, maybe I actually am, because hating people feels shit, does nothing, and makes the world boring and hate-filled and dead. We’ve tried that! We’ve tried telling men/cis/white women/privileged feminists/baby boomers/Tories/right-wingers/Brexit supporters/homophobes/transphobes/racists/abusers/Cameron that they’re just a crapsack, nothing but a punchline, should get pushed off their soapbox or fixie or 4x4 or youtube channel into the fiery pits of hell! We’ve let the warmth of righteous indignation warm us at night and not minded the language we use against our enemies because look at the way they’ve treated us! Look at the terrible things they’ve done! So we hurl insults and craft jokes and smash bridges with our pixel sledgehammers and wait for the likes and retweets and thumbs up and YEAH comments to flood in, and if they do then our point is proved, good work, and if they don’t then maybe we up it a bit more next time.

(Or sometimes, I wonder if it’s all a handy distraction from the way we’re treating our planet at the moment, like gum we can replace at the corner shop once we’ve chewed all the goodness from it. That’s frightening. That’s genuinely sick-in-the-night, silent panic-attack terrifying. But we buy new phones and new phone covers and charge them up and snap a picture of ourselves with them in the mirror and grind our teeth that some dude took up too much space on the tube and Steven Moffatt can’t write women. Yes! Those things might be true! But, to play the card we all dislike the most: haven’t we got other things to worry about? Not necessarily bigger things, or better things, but fractionally more pressing things? Shouldn't we all be hurling money as hard as we can at scientists and policy makers in the hope we can stop sawing down and burning up the only home we’ve got? Shouldn’t we be campaigning against companies who design their products with built-in obsolescence, rather than grabbing those products as fast as we can so we can use them to tweet our rage at companies who use unreliable delivery companies? And I understand that climate change isn’t a stand-alone issue — capitalism, our lifestyles, our conditioned social priorities, corporate power over government, dissolution of employment rights, exploitation of workers — all of this feeds into climate change and the terrible way we’re treating our planet. I understand this. And all of it feels slightly more pressing than how I can correctly display my individualism to people who don’t or barely know me.)

The fact remains, the basic philosophies of most major religions (if we put aside meat specifics and some potentially dodgy sex/marriage stuff) throughout human civilisation probably have a point: care for the needy; practice humility; think of others; show forgiveness; show respect; love everyone.

If the future looks scary, the answer isn’t to build the wall higher and sharpen our words. It’s so painful, and it’s so difficult, and it’s so simple. Right now, if we can take the time to type our disdain and disgust, we’re in a privileged enough position to take a deep breath, dive into life, and make a better choice.

1. *Jon Ronson on Guys We’ve Fucked

2. *Invisibilia, Flip the Script

3. *Richard Ayoade on Adam Buxton

4. *Iain Lee on Adam Buxton

5. *Jon Ronson on Adam Buxton

6. *Oliver Burkeman, ‘Moderates are the real tough guys’

7. *This American Life, For Your Reconsideration

#change #hope #social media #nuance #reconsideration #moderation #screens #privacy #intrusion #consumerism #recommendations

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ecotone99 · 6 years ago

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[SF] [Grimdark Fantasy] Raid on Grey Watcher: Part I

Hello everyone. I've been a writer for quite some time. I have my own podcast but I miss creative writing since I started it. Please enjoy this piece, Raid on Grey Watcher: Part I. A practice session inspired by an idea for a novel and Diablo III aesthetics. (All right I'll just admit it right now you can imagine the Demon Hunter character narrating this.)

In the silence of my dreams I know a world without answers. Yet I do not fear it.

— Grelda Stone, First Commander of the Umbra Order

We were assigned to investigate the Grey Watcher, a castle which had become so old as to lose its first name. Like the moss and vile vermin which had overcome its collapsed stonework, what was once known about it had since been devoured. Consumed by time. Replaced by speculation and the ill musings of those who forget to remember that, just like any other home, it once knew a life without phantoms. It was once bustling with people. Laughter. Lives. Human lives.

I’ve come to know—something that few know—that there are other creatures in this world looking to defend the name of ‘living’. And there are some creatures, my friends, whose stomachs stir with disgust to think of the word ‘human’ being beholden to it.

It was a late night when we started this fool’s errand. A winter’s night, too. Of course it was. Flooded with rain too indecent to become snow.

We were compelled to go. The whole town had gathered coin, tossed the lot in a bag and thrown it at us. Their eyes glittered from torchlight with a faltering hope. Rumours about our Order were fresh on their lips. The silver spilled out from the pouch when it hit the mud, such was its overflowing contents. The four of us had never seen so much coin in one place. And the townspeople had never given up so much in a single hour.

The four of us wanted to believe we weren’t seeing it. We’d be damned idiots not to accept it. Yet even then we all exchanged glances. Not one of us leapt out to claim the small fortune.

It was Morgan who grabbed the pouch and nodded at the gathering of citizens with a braver face than the rest of us. Once she turned from them with the payment in hand, there was no taking it back. Our Order has always had a policy with accepting payment and the verbal contract being signed therein. True enough. We could have turned tail on the lot. Forgotten about our allegiance. Split the pay. Swept off to brighter fates without so much as a backwards glance at that husk of a town called Birchwood’s Pass.

Maybe what stopped us was the same childish virtue that didn’t let us turn down the job in the first place. God knows the three of us fought Morgan every step of the way as soon as we were out of earshot.

Soon enough, we were piled into the armoured carriage and clattering down the Severed Road. As was typical, Jeremiah was steering through the weather hatch. Caitlyn was loading shot into rifles, pistols, checking flasks of holy water and pouring shots of whiskey. The way that substance snaked fire down the stomach seemed to be the only warmth in the world in that short ride.

“Why’d you take it?” I asked Morgan.

She fed bolts into her cartridge crossbow with a numb fluidity. “Get the pay. Do the assignment. Same as always.”

“No chance of me getting a better answer for you risking our lives before we had a proper discussion?” I asked.

“That right there, Captain, is a fortune,” she said, looking at the pay. “There’s your discussion.”

“Not if we’re dead,” I told her. “The stories they told of that place. If it’s at all true. No. If a tenth of it is true …” My mouth was dry. I swallowed and massaged the belly of my pistol.

“Every city and town’s got a ghost story,” she replied.

“Not one like that,” I replied. “I don’t think I intend to ever hear it again. I … it … much less live it. Ghost stories don’t kidnap thirteen girls and send back cauterised hands. Haunt everybody’s head. Give them all the same nightmare on the same night.”

“That’s where the fear got to them. That’s the fairy tale part of it,” Jeremiah said from the hatch. “Some murdering madman sends them all insane with grief. Sure as sin. But the second part of the story can’t be true. We’re not stalking ghosts. Just killing killers. A cult, if it was my best guess.”

“Are you certain?” I asked him. “The nightmare told them that whatever is responsible for this is in the Grey Watcher. And here we are … racing towards that damned castle! On the word of townspeople we can’t admit are sane because if there’s the smallest chance they’re right, we should all be pissing our pants right now!”

Jeremiah looked back from the road, his eyes lingering a little too long on mine.

“ ‘Every nightmare’s soul contains a crying infant. Each monster’s heart, a child helpless,’ ” Morgan interjected. “That’s what my father told me. Madman or phantom, there’s mercy for them at the end of a blade. Or bullet. It’s not their fault they’re this way.”

“Oh, not this sympathetic nonsense again,” Caitlyn piped in. But there was too much emotion in her eyes to keep her teasing. Hesitation. Fear. It was spilling out. She opened her mouth, then watched the passing scenery. And when that was too much, when the darkness from the surroundings rushed to fill her imagination of whatever nightmarish contrivance we were about to meet, she looked between her hands. Then she closed her eyes.

That was better.

Anywhere but here.

I brought the pistol to my lips and breathed a sigh against it.

“Elias,” Morgan said to me. “If all you have is fear when you raise your pistol, you’ll only be taking aim at yourself.”

“How’d your father die, Morgan?”

“Ghoul. Took a bite out of his neck.”

“Why’d he get close enough to let it happen?”

“He thought he could talk him out of eating the child in his arms.”

“Did the child survive?”

Morgan looked out from the window as the carriage rumbled on, saying nothing for a long while. The lantern burned a deep crimson against the midnight of her hair.

“No.”

Humans and demons are subtle allies, equally vexed by the Seven Sins. There is no species in Gehenna’s Plane for which we can empathise with better. Angels exist without flaw—for this, our two races are forever divided.

— The Umbra Order's Apocrypha, Vol. II, Augustus Elbridge

When our party reached the bridge which once joined the castle’s island with the mainland, we left the cover of our carriage. What was left of the bridge were gnarled stones like broken teeth sticking out over the Warren River. Its usually calm waters now flooded with anger from the storm. Our heels splashed in the muddied road, every step suctioned from the deep sludge.

Jeremiah and Caitlyn got to work unsaddling the horse while Morgan and I drew out our rifles, kneeling on either side of the carriage’s backside. We didn’t have long. Soon enough, rain would seep passed the covers which kept the ignition points of our flintlocks dry.

Morgan and I held our aim, watching the scenery beyond. Both of us could feel it watching us. Old Hungry, the town called him. Some kind of bog giant. Typical in places like this. They weren’t sure what it was, really. Once their livestock had started going missing they’d sent some people to investigate. After a few survivors came back to tell them what they saw, they moved their livestock away. Told their children never to enter the forest, so on and so forth. Problem solved.

Fact is, creatures like that get hungry. Starving it will only make it wander outside its territory. This spot being the only real entrance and exit to the Grey Watcher, we had what you might call a vested interest in making sure that creature wouldn’t be hungry on our return after a long fight.

Also, there was a bonus if we dealt with it. That helped. We didn’t have any real plans of killing the giant. That’s messy, usually takes a small army, or several hours if lacking the requisite bait. But, there’s no harm in feeding the thing and letting the town assume the best long after we’re on our way.

Plus, our horse had been getting old. This seemed a fitting way to say goodbye. At least she’d be used for something. Feeding the earth and all that.

“Damn chain is stuck,” Jeremiah grunted.

“Well jangling it won’t help,” Caitlyn said, taking over.

Morgan and I risked a glance at each other with our rifles aimed at the forest beyond. When she brought her eyes back to her sights, she muttered some unintelligible insult.

"You’re going to need to be faster than that!” I couldn’t help shouting backwards. “We haven’t got long! Rain. Gunpowder. Not an amazing combination.”

“Keep your voice down,” Morgan hissed.

“Over this storm? Can hardly hear myself. With any luck that thing’s just as bothered by the rain as we are. How’s it going back there? Let the damn thing loose already!”

“It won’t budge!” Caitlyn shouted back.

Then we saw it. Made to look even more amorphous in the darkness, the hands stretched out between the tops of tree trunks. Gigantic eyes to us, but still tiny for the size of its head, stared in a starved fixation towards us—a heaping mound of snacks.

“Douse the lanterns!” Morgan called back.

“Oh it’s too late for that,” I growled as the monster tentatively exited the forest’s edge. “Ever seen a sorrier lot of bait waiting to be killed? Damnit Jeremiah!” At the head of the carriage, Caitlyn and Jeremiah were taking equally ineffective turns to detach a single link of the horse’s harness, the last one keeping it to the carriage.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jeremiah asked me as I approached, with what I can only assume was the most unfiltered look of annoyance and fury on my face.

A groan of expectation? The rumbling of its insides? I wasn’t sure what noise exactly was being emitted from the monster emerging from the forest. Only that its vibration lashed the ground. Our carriage shook, one of the lanterns jostled from its hook and shattered against the ground.

“That’ll just about be it for time, then!” Morgan shouted.

I cocked the rifle and took aim.

“Have you lost your mind?” Caitlyn protested.

The appropriate response, one filled with a plenty of profanities, was drowned from the shot’s explosion. A gunpowder cloud engulfed us with an irony spray. The startled horse flayed about, too fast for us to remove the saddle. That final link trailed behind it, its end smouldering as the beast ran off in the opposite direction towards the forest’s edge.

Morgan screamed a curse and dove under the carriage. Not due to the horse. The bog creature lumbered towards us, the steps throwing us off our feet, shaking the earth, causing more of the bridge’s edge to slither off into the river. We scrambled backwards, losing what ground we had to retreat on.

We could see it now. Indomitable, starving. A sopping hulk of branches, algae, and exactly the kinds of things you would think a bog would vomit out if they could.

It raised its arm up, looking to bring its fist down onto the carriage. As the hand fell, its eyes caught sight of the horse, and in a final reaction for the largest meal, it swung its mass around to catch it before the poor beast could get away. The bog monster took hold of the horse the way a toddler might grasp its doll. Then there was the first bite. A mulching chomp with deep popping sounds, like that of a hound unflinchingly grinding through a chicken’s shoulder bone.

We watched in stupor, almost just as satisfied as the creature, knowing that it wouldn’t be any of our bones emitting those horrendous noises. With half of the carcass hanging from its jaws, the massive silhouette, dreamlike in its silhouetted terror, slouched off towards the forest to finish its meal.

“Come on,” Caitlyn said, “we don’t know what kind of appetite it’s capable of. Best be off while it’s occupied. Morgan, you’ve got the grappling prepped?”

The archer unholstered a crossbow from her back that was daring to equal her weight in steel and wood.

“Jeremiah,” I said, “it’s best that you grab the pay from the carriage before we cross the river. In case Old Hungry gets curious about our transportation while we’re away. We don’t want to come back with empty hands once we’re out of this.”

“Captain,” Morgan said, priming the crossbow, “did I hear a tone of optimism in your voice?”

“Greed. You heard greed.”

Jeremiah came back, pocketing the pouch of silver into a satchel at his waist.

“Right,” I said, “Morgan. Fire that grappling into the boulder on the far side of the water. Make us a neat little tightrope towards that circus of Gehenna that town calls a castle.”

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